Women of Destiny

What was it about history class that sucked the life out of the life stories of amazing people? Reduced to dates and battles and policies, I cannot remember a history class that I ever enjoyed – I can barely remember them at all. The Louisiana Purchase, the American Revolution, Lewis and Clark – oh, spare me the agony! But as I read for my own enjoyment, I find that there are real stories behind the dates; real people behind the battles; and the policies are not all dribble from old pompous white men with starched collars.

New Orleans

Wikipedia: La Nouvelle-Orléans (New Orleans) was founded May 7, 1718, by the French Mississippi Company, under the direction of Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, on land inhabited by the Chitimacha. It was named for the Duke of Orléans of France. His title came from the French city of Orléans.

All of the history books that I read in school were written by white men of European descent, like me. Like New Orleans, the founding of anyplace in America could have the postscript “on land inhabited by…” Until this day, I had no awareness of the Chitimacha. Through the magic of the internet, I now know that they were a matrilineal society – meaning that everything passed through maternal lines, everything from property to the actual acceptance of being Chitimacha (if your mother was Chitimacha, so were you …if your mother was not, you were not). Prior to the 1700s, European diseases decimated the population from perhaps 20,000 to several hundred. Between 1706 and 1718, nearly all of them were killed in a bitter war with the French, which lends a different tone to the founding of New Orleans “on land inhabited by the Chitimacha.” An interesting side note on the matriarchal aspect of the Chitimacha – as the last of their land was about to disappear to white ownership, the Chitimacha women sent out a plea that was answered by another woman, Sarah Avery McIlhenney. McIlhenney (of the Tobasco family) purchased 260 acres of their traditional land, helped petition the Bureau of Indian Affairs for federal recognition and ceded the land to them. But this is not basis for my “Women of Destiny” story.

Ignored by history books, amid New Orleans’ back and forth between French and Spanish rule is the family of Frenchman Nicolas Bourgeois and his Spanish wife, Marie Joseph Tarare. In 1733, they had a daughter named Marie-Thérèse and this is where our story begins. Shortly before she turned six, her father died. The following year, Marie-Thérèse’s mother married Nicholas Pierre Carco. History has obscured the reasons, but young Marie-Thérèse was sent away to the Ursuline Convent and then ushered into an arranged marriage at the age of 15. Today, that would generate at least some discussion but apparently not in 1748. Her new husband, René Chouteau, had recently arrived from France, was 10 years older and has alternately been described as an innkeeper, liquor dealer, and pastry chef. Let that image sit for a minute. They promptly had a child, René Auguste Chouteau, Jr. who we shall refer to as Auguste Chouteau.

René Chouteau purportedly abused Marie-Thérèse, then disserted her as he retreated to France, resulting in her return to the convent along with her son. The scandals continue. Marie-Thérèse remained Madame Chouteau, though she called herself Widow Chouteau. She did this not as a premonition, but because a widow had more legal rights than a married woman. As a widow, she could own property and have custody of her children. Madame Chouteau began living with Pierre de Laclède Liguest (we’ll call him Laclede) around 1755, so she was now 23 years old. She could not divorce or remarry due to the strict Roman Catholic doctrine, and society in New Orleans looked at them as sinners. In spite of this, the couple lived together as though they were married and bore four children together. Since Madame Chouteau could not divorce, all of the children had her last name rather than Laclede’s. I’ll choose to take this as a pseudo-matriarchal act of fate, or destiny.

Although too risqué for any history classroom, this story was not without precedence by any means. The wife of Ben Franklin, Deborah Read, was deserted by her first husband and therefore could only have a common law marriage with Ben. And like Martha Washington, Abigail Adams, other wives of founding fathers and wives of so many pioneers and explorers, these women managed the businesses of their husbands while they were apart from them – making history. And in the case of the Franklin marriage, they were apart for 18 of their 44 years. The power and intelligence of these women is not well documented in traditional history books but is nonetheless self-evident, in my opinion.

Saint Louis

Wikipedia: St. Louis was founded in 1764 by Pierre Laclède and Auguste Chouteau and named after Louis IX of France. Claimed first by the French, the region in which the city stands was ceded to Spain following France's defeat in the Seven Years' War. The territory east of the Mississippi was ceded to Great Britain, the victor. The area of present-day Missouri was part of Spanish Louisiana from 1762 until 1803.

The area was “discovered” by Jolliet and Marquette in 1673 and later claimed for France by La Salle, as I was probably taught (I may have slept through that class). Of course it was well known for centuries by several native groups. A great metropolis, Cahokia, had once existed across the river. More than simply a confluence of great river systems, this area facilitated commerce as the primary crossroads of native peoples. Groups from the upper Mississippi, the Great Lakes, the Missouri, the Wabash, and Illinois rivers all frequented the area. A network of small-scale traders, French and Métis (Canadian, First Nations), already blanketed the region. The most significant were the powerful Osages living to the west of the new city and they would play a key role in the growing fur trade. Nonetheless, I don’t recall the phrase, “on land inhabited by…” but they buried their ancestors in great mounds on this land. Mounds that were mostly destroyed during the city’s development, but let’s get back to the story. Barely 10 years old, young Auguste would join Laclede’s business ventures in the fur trade up the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. As the story goes, in 1763 Laclede obtained the necessary license from the French territorial government to trade with the Native Americans living near the Missouri River. Chouteau, Laclede and some 30 other men traveled upriver from New Orleans to establish a trading post. According to his own journal, in the winter of 1764, Auguste directed the men to start clearing the area. Thus he and Laclede are given credit for founding the city of St. Louis.

When Laclede and her son left on their founding journey, Madame Chouteau was pregnant with a daughter, Victoire. Sometime soon after the baby's baptism, she left New Orleans to make the seven-hundred-mile journey upriver with her three young children and infant in tow. She reached St. Louis in September 1764. Arriving at Fort de Chartres, Madame Chouteau and the children then traveled to Cahokia in a bumpy, two-wheeled charrette and crossed the river in a pirogue. The family began their new life in the newly built stone headquarters of the trading post. Four years later, they moved to a new house down the street. She was the first white woman to live on the west bank of the Mississippi River. Laclede deeded this residence to Madame Chouteau, along with the lot, an additional piece of land in the common fields, three black slaves, and two Indian slaves, Manon and Thérèse, both in their teens. Remember that they were not legally married, so these were gifts Pierre gave to her. It’s noted that he did this in consideration of his clerk Auguste's "faithful service" and "the affection" he bore the other four children of "dame Marie Thérèse Bourgeois and of Sieur René Choutaud." Along with his step-children, she had three other children with Pierre. Despite the children to raise, she had an impressive amount of responsibility and independence. She ran a busy household, acquired property, owned cattle, kept bees, and conducted business transactions.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not given her increasing wealth and power, René Chouteau returned from France. He spent some time in jail in New Orleans in 1771 for slandering a rival baker. In 1774, he tried to make Madame Chouteau join him in New Orleans. She refused to leave St. Louis. René tried to bring legal actions against her because he wanted to claim her property as his own. Still Madame Chouteau would not leave St. Louis. René died in 1776, finally freeing her of the unwanted marriage. Imagine discussing this in history class.

Madame Chouteau did not, however, choose to marry Laclede. By this time, Laclede had fallen into debt. And she was a clever businesswoman. Though she loved him, she may have feared that she would lose her property and money to pay off his debts when he died, which happened fairly soon in 1778. Thereafter she fulfilled her destiny. After Laclede’s death, Madame Chouteau continued to manage the dynasty from their stone house. She was known to the community as the Mother of St. Louis. Her sons, Auguste and Pierre Jr., came to control the fur trade and were leaders in St. Louis business and politics for decades.

In this first generation, the growing Chouteau clan followed the time-honored patterns of mercantile families. Sons married daughters of established and mutually-beneficial families. Early transfers of property, large dowries, and a system of partible inheritance favored the entry of sons and sons-in-law into the parents’ businesses. In this remote frontier, women played a critical role in preparing their children for the complex world of international trade. It was Madame Chouteau who gave the family its sense of direction and purpose. She set the tone for the women that would follow.

Marie Thérèse Bourgeois Chouteau died at the age of 81 on August 14, 1814, leaving close to one hundred children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. [See sidebar on some of her interesting descendents.] A new generation of Chouteau women would create homes that served as gathering places and centers of socialization and education.

Lewis and Clark

Wikipedia: Napoleon sold Louisiana (New France) to the United States in the Louisiana Purchase in 1803.

Wikipedia: The Lewis and Clark Expedition was commissioned by President Thomas Jefferson shortly after the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, under the command of Captain Meriwether Lewis and his close friend Second Lieutenant William Clark. The primary objective was to explore and map the newly acquired territory, find a practical route across the Western half of the continent, and establish an American presence in this territory before Britain and other European powers tried to claim it. The campaign's secondary objectives were scientific and economic: to study the area's plants, animal life, and geography, and establish trade with local Indian tribes.

As you know by now, the Chouteau family controlled and influenced pretty much everything that went on in the early decades of St. Louis, the Gateway to the West. Many other prominent citizens in the area had made their fortunes off trading with various Indian tribes and thought the Americans might ruin their empires. Their previous agreements were with the French and Spanish governments. No doubt heeding the wisdom of Madame Chouteau, Auguste and Pierre were able to see that the expansion of the lands the Americans had gained in the Louisiana Purchase could bring even more riches. In the winter of 1803-04, Lewis and Clark soon became welcome guests in the Chouteau households, which were considered to be the unofficial home for the pair.

As the spring of 1804 broke, the Lewis and Clark Expedition left the Chouteau households to start their journey. Scandals continue “on land inhabited by…” Rumors persist and align with oral histories that Meriwether Lewis fathered a son with an Indian woman named Ikpsapewin during the expedition. None of this is proven, and certainly not in the history books. But oral history suggests Lewis as the father of Turkey Head (a.k.a. Long House; Zomi; Joseph Lewis DeSmet) as told by Samuel Charger, grandson of Turkey Head, in 1923. As a young adult, Turkey Head was given employment at Fort Pierre as a trader, perhaps as a business favor and lending some bit of confirmation to the rumor.

While this seems like a gratuitous departure from our story, let me tie it back together for you. Madame Chouteau’s daughter Marie Pelagie married Sylvestre Labbadie. Their daughter, Marie Pelagie Labbadie (confusing, I know) married Gregoire Sarpy. Their son, Thomas Lestang Sarpy, was therefore the great grandson of Madame Chouteau and Pierre Laclede. Skipping his scandalous youth, the earliest records found on Thomas after his less than history-text-worthy exit from St. Louis, show him as a company clerk at the Oglala post near the mouth of what is now called Rapid Creek in South Dakota. A marriage was arranged for him shortly after his arrival to Woman Ahead of the Clouds, daughter of Chief White Swan of the Minneconjou band of the Teton Sioux. They had a daughter, also named Pelagie; and shortly after her birth Woman Ahead of the Clouds died.

With a small baby to take care of, Thomas Sarpy soon remarried, this time to Her Good Ground a daughter of Rotten Body Stinking Ribs (English translation that was probably incorrect), a chief of the Sans Arc Band of Teton Sioux. Her Good Ground gave birth to Mary Sarpy (a.k.a. White Woman) in 1831. But within a year Her Good Ground would find herself a widow with two young girls to raise on her own. Following the tradition of her culture, Her Good Ground took her two daughters and returned to her family.

When word of Thomas Sarpy’s death reached the Chouteau family in St. Louis, the first rule of order was to make sure that his children would be cared for. Although the family did not formally acknowledge the half-Indian daughters Thomas had left behind, they apparently did feel responsible for them. Turkey Head and Her Good Ground found themselves in an arranged marriage very shortly after the death of Thomas Sarpy. Perhaps the extended Chouteau/Sarpy family believed that by having the children raised by a son of their former associate, Meriwether Lewis, they had fulfilled their responsibility to their mixed blood relatives Pelagie and Mary Sarpy.

By 1833 Turkey Head and Her Good Ground had Wowacinye (later known as Martin Charger, half brother to Mary Sarpy) the first of their four children together. But the union was to be fairly short; by 1850 Her Good Ground had left Turkey Head and married a man named John Split. “She was a fickle woman,” a niece once said of her, when asked about the numerous marriages. But fickle or not, Her Good Ground managed to raise her two daughters by Sarpy, and Martin Charger and the other children she had by Turkey Head, and instill them with strength and pride.

Martin Charger & Basil Claymore

By the time Mary “White Woman” Sarpy had become a young woman, she had learned from her mother the art of survival. From her father’s side, there was some monetary gain. Exactly how much or how it came to both her and Pelagie isn’t really known, but it did make her very attractive to a young man named Basil Clement (eventually translated by the American government to Claymore).

Basil was a mixed blood, part French and part Cree from Canada. His parents had come from Saskatchewan to St. Louis and then back up the Missouri River to what is now South Dakota. Although Mary Sarpy and her connections and money from ‘down the river’, may have been very appealing to Basil, it appears their common backgrounds brought them together. They were originally married by Indian tradition and the marriage was later ‘solemnized’, the union produced nine children.

Basil went on to become a legend as a trapper, interpreter and a mountain man. He was a guide of Jim Bridger’s expedition, worked as an interpreter and was well respected by both the Lakota people and the government as well. But while all this went on, it was Mary Sarpy Claymore that raised their children and saw to their needs as her husband roamed the west. As with many women of her day, she was relegated to the background as her husband made a name for himself on the pages of history.

Had it not been for Mary Sarpy Claymore, Basil and his children would never have had the strength and connections to succeed as they did. For although she was far from St. Louis, her connections to the Sarpy family as well as Basil’s background, brought the pride of both the French and Lakota ancestries to the family.

Mary "White Woman" Sarpy

When Mary Sarpy Claymore died in 1892, destiny passed to her children to carry on the strong matriarchal family she had inherited from Madame Chouteau and the ability to live in the white man’s world without giving up their rich Lakota culture.

And if you will indulge me further, I’ll follow one specific descendent path among the thousands to the current generation. Mary and Basil had 13 children, one of which was Julia Jollette Claymore. Julia married Julius Pearman and had 14 children. Their granddaughter, Catherine Muriel Pearman married Raymond Fogarty. And they had 15 children in rural North Dakota. One of which, married my brother. And to my two nieces, is a matriarchal destiny and heritage of strength and intelligence and independence almost beyond comprehension. You won’t find this in any of the traditional history books but is nonetheless self-evident, in my opinion.



SIDEBAR
Children of Marie Chouteau and Pierre Laclede:

• Victoire Chouteau: She married Charles Gratiot, Sr., financier of the Illinois campaign during the American Revolutionary War. Charles Chouteau Gratiot, Jr. was a West Point graduate and an engineer in the War of 1812 and had a fort named after him. Gratiot Avenue in Detroit is named for that fort.
• Jean Pierre Chouteau, known as Pierre: Fort Pierre is named after Pierre Chouteau, Jr., his son. The capital of South Dakota, Pierre, was founded in 1880 on the Missouri River opposite Fort Pierre. Junior is more famous for consolidating the family firm's dominant position in the fur trade, eventually superseding and even acquiring John Jacob Astor's American Fur Company. Another of his sons, Francois Chouteau, founded Kansas City. Francois’ widow, Bérénice Chouteau, was called the "Mother of Kansas City."
• Marie Pelagie Chouteau: In addition to her connection to my sister-in-law, was grandmother of Emilie Pratt, wife of Ramsay Crooks, General Manager and President of the American Fur Company and business partner of Jean Pierre Chouteau (above).

Look up any famous Chouteau in the west and they are likely descendents. Oklahoma’s prima ballerina of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, Myra Yvonne Chouteau, is also descended from Pierre Chouteau. Her great grandmother was a Shawnee woman, Mary Silverheels.


NOTES

Wikipedia

http://www.nathpo.org/Many_Nations/mn_news16.html

http://columbia-mo.aauw.net/notablewomen/womenac/marie-chouteau/

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.

Double Play Ball

Few things in sport can go from elegant to awkward as easily as turning a double play in baseball. To me, even at the pro level, most double plays look a shoestring away from a trip, stumble and a mouthful of dirt. The second baseman takes a sharp grounder off the chest, picks the ball up and twists awkwardly to the wrong side and flicks it to the second base bag. Stutter-stepping, the shortstop catches the ball with both hands on his left side, leaps off the wrong foot, and rotates right to fling the ball to first. Amid the dust and dirt, the runner slides with one foot high in the air trying to take out the shortstop, forcing him high and wide to avoid him. Finally, the first baseman does the splits and catches the ball high over his head, then falls awkwardly to the side. Bang-bang, two outs and everyone’s happy. Everyone except me, I guess.

1986: Some municipal lot with a chain-link backstop and three rows of bleachers on one side. I’m playing second base for the Diamond Cutters, a work league softball team for General Motors outside of Pontiac, MI. Some middle-aged guy with coaches shorts and kneepads is tucking in his shirt on first, having hit a blooper to get on base. I nod to Scotty playing short; get ready for a double-play ball. The batter smacks a one-hop rocket up the middle of the infield on my side. I’ve got no time to get in front of it. In two steps, I backhand the ball; the momentum carries my glove around in front of me. Without even thinking, I take the ball in my free hand and flip it behind my back like Pete Maravich. Scotty’s on a slow run, does a little skip step and catches the ball on his right hip with his arm already cocked. In one fluid motion he rifles it to first about 50 feet ahead of the stunned runner. Nonchalantly, I nod once more to Scotty – two down.

Yes, that really happened. Once. I’ve had my moments, and that was one of them. The groan from the other dugout was priceless. I was good enough in those days to stop that particular grounder and I just got lucky on the toss. Scotty and I had played together enough to completely trust each other and, frankly, he was really good. That’s why he was at short and I was at second. But a lot of things went right on that play besides my stop and his catch. Timing is so important for the shortstop. His steps have to be just perfect to step on the bag when the ball arrives and have the lead foot out front for his throw. The ball has to come out of the glove just right and lead him into his wind-up without twisting his shoulders or causing a double-pump. The more the left shoulder faces first on the catch, the easier the whole motion is. And that day in 1986 was the smoothest double play I ever experienced myself.

Look up “behind the back double play” on YouTube; it’s a meme.

Aside from hitting a home run, the double play ball is the quintessential daydream of every Midwestern kid of my generation. Bouncing a tennis ball off the garage wall, we’d quietly whisper the play-by-play to ourselves, “Tinker to Evers to Chance! And the crowd goes wild, aaaaahhh.” The Detroit Tigers were my team in the 1970s; Sweet Lou Whitaker and Alan Trammell, who also played on the ’84 World Series team. There were several first basemen during that time, so the double play combo was simply Lou and Alan. Before them, it was always Norm Cash but that’s another story.

So who were Tinker, Evers and Chance? Or as I thought when I was eight years old, Tinkers to Evans to Chance.

Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers and Frank Chance are, arguably, the best-known Chicago Cubs of all time yet last played together in 1912. They were good, but they are remembered because of an eight-line poem.

"Baseball's Sad Lexicon" first appeared over 100 years ago. It was written by Franklin P. Adams, a New York Evening Mail columnist who had been born in Chicago (and was a Cubs fan). Those were the days when the Cubs were a dynasty, unlike today where the Cubs are synonymous with *not* winning the World Series. From 1902 to 1912, shortstop Joe Tinker, second baseman Johnny Evers and first baseman Frank Chance were the best double play combination in baseball.

For the New York Giants, the combo’s proficiency caused much frustration and inspired Adams to write the poem:

These are the saddest of possible words:"Tinker to Evers to Chance."Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,Tinker and Evers and Chance.Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,Making a Giant hit into a double—Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

Adams conceded: "I wrote that piece because I wanted to get out to the game, and the foreman of the composing room at the Mail said I needed eight lines to fill. And the next day (an editor) said that no matter what else I ever wrote, I would be known as the guy that wrote those 8 lines. And they weren't much good, at that."

The poem has been altered slightly over the years. Researchers, Bales and Wiles found the original version. They suggest a different seventh line: ‘Words that are weighty with nothing but trouble' which I prefer.

Words that are weighty

Nonetheless, even though I had never seen or heard that poem until just now, I knew that Tinker, Evans and Chance meant double play. Of course, I also thought some guy named Taylor was significant.


NOTES

My shortstop's name was probably not Scotty. I can't remember.

Wikipedia, Baseball's Sad Lexicon

“Remembering 'Tinker to Evers to Chance'” July 05, 2010|By William Hageman, Tribune Newspapers, http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2010-07-05/news/ct-tinker-cubs-story_1_gonfalon-bubble-cubs-fan-poem

Triathlon Monkey Business

It’s about 25 miles from my office to my house, and just over 100 miles from there to Rancho Cordova, CA. On a Friday, if I leave work before 3pm, it can still take an hour to get home by car. Today, it took an hour and a half of agonizing crawl. I spent most of that time reflecting on how I can do the same ride in an hour and 40 minutes on my bike. At home, I threw my bike and kayak on the roof, an overnight bag in the back and then my wife and son piled into the car for what should have been a two-hour drive to Rancho Cordova, a nice little suburb of Sacramento. Almost four unbelievable hours later, we arrived with gnawing hunger, black spirits and an uneasy fear of missing the packet pick-up for Eppie’s Great Race.

Marketed as “The World’s Oldest Triathlon,” Eppie’s Great Race comprises a 5.82-mile run, 12.5-mile bike ride and 6.35-mile paddle (mostly kayaks) along the American River. We have competed as team for the past couple years with my wife doing the first leg, me the second and my son finishing up. The race was founded in 1974 by local businessman Eppaminondas “Eppie” Johnson to promote his restaurants. The event raises money for charity and apparently the larger-than-life Eppie would make a show of everything. Once, he dressed as a superhero. Another year he poured $50,000 in cash and coins on the dais in the Board of Supervisors chambers. When he died in 2013, one online mourner wrote, 

“Rest in Peace, Eppie. You were a sunflower in a garden of weeds. The world needs more sunflowers.”

We picked up our neon green event T-shirts, bib numbers and advertisements before they closed up for the day. Surprisingly, our finishers’ medals were already in the bag. Then off for dinner. Although I thought they closed years ago, we found a Chevy’s Mexican restaurant. News of their demise was highly exaggerated – there are still plenty of them, just not around our house anymore. Did you know that the first one was in Alameda, CA? Anyway, there’s nothing like Mexican food and a $10 margarita the night before a race!

CycloMonkey was once again tucked away with my bike helmet, shoes and so forth. At 6am, we are all bustling around the hotel room getting ready. I expect to start the bike leg of the race shortly after 9am, but we need to drop the kayak off first so my son can wait close to four hours. Logistics, ugh. If there’s one trait my family shares, it’s a mild compulsion for getting somewhere as soon as possible. After the kayak stop, my wife drops me, CycloMonkey and my bike off near Sacramento State University and then heads toward the runners’ starting line. I take a slight detour across the pedestrian bridge and eventually head over to the bikers’ corrals (I was never actually lost). I find my assignment for corral “C” – family team category – then I immediately start pedaling in the opposite direction to warm up with my monkey in my back jersey pocket. I return and see that I still have about an hour to wait. Two nice ladies are chatting so I ask if they’d take a photo of me and CycloMonkey. They tell me their story some other toy animal who got handed off to various friends and traipsed around Europe. They also explain that “Ride for Willie” on the backs of their shirts is for their soon-to-be-slaughtered cow. Grass-fed, organic, humanely-raised, but Willie was always intended to be what’s for dinner. This isn’t Stockton or Harrah’s Ranch, but it’s not too far either. CycloMonkey didn’t ask; I didn’t explain.

One more warm-up ride and I’m up to about 20 miles in preparation for my 12-mile race. I noticed on my warm-up that there’s a headwind. Given that my training regimen included a 10-day cruise to Alaska with an all-you-can eat buffet, this didn’t bode well for improving upon last year’s time. Now I’m watching the clock and well before I expect her, here comes my wife! Whee! Showtime. To set the stage, the bike route covers 12.5 miles of the two-lane, paved trail in River Walk Park which runs along the American River. It’s closed for the event this morning, so no on-coming bikers, hikers, strollers, roller bladers or pet walkers. The total elevation change is maybe 100 feet but no more than a few feet at a time. Where the trail crosses roads or other trails, there are police blocking the cross-traffic. Accordingly, there are a lot of competitive types on time-trial bikes with skin suits and aero helmets. All those people are long gone because their runners were blistering. Being a family event, there are also people in costumes, some with capes, a few with balloons. I’m not aero, but I’m planning on riding as hard as can. And I’ve got a monkey on my back.

I start out riding within myself, at 20mph – “on your left!” After half a mile, all systems are good; CycloMonkey seems secure, so up to 21mph – “on your left, thank you, ON YOUR LEFT!” Still good, the wind isn’t bad, maybe it’s a cross-wind here, 22mph – “on your left, you’re fine, sorry.” Yikes, people on mountain bikes three-wide! 23mph. Okay, that’s probably all I can do today but that’s ahead of last year if I can keep it up. People of all shapes and sizes, none too fast. I come up behind them so quickly that I can’t get a slingshot. AAAAAAHHHHH, on-coming cyclists! AAAHHH. Whew, survived, what on Earth are they doing? 26mph down a little dip in the road, 18mph back up …back to 23mph. Feels great. Oh, hi there Mr. Photographer …serious face, Blue Steel. Now I’m counting down the miles; aren’t we done yet? Uh oh, why aren’t we done? I’m fading. Keep going. Finished!
The valet takes my bike. I trot over to the bridge, hand the transponder to my son who takes off. Then I spend what seems like three days looking for my bike …red bike, green tag, number 170 – anybody seen it? I see this other lady looking for her bike; I see her over and over again. I make a mental note of her bib number. Finally, I find her bike. I see her again, “yours is over there.” Then I find mine and head back on surface streets to the kayak finishing point and also where the food is at the party. I get a couple of positive comments on CycleMonkey from passing motorists. Have I mentioned my navigational shortcomings? It’s not that I get lost or don’t know where I’m going. It’s that I sorta know where I’m going and figure I don’t need to review the details before taking off. So I get almost to where the bike leg started when I realize that’s not my destination. I text my wife, and show up at the party about 30 minutes late. CycloMonkey collapses in the shade. But I got to ride some extra miles!

I beat my previous best time and averaged about a half mile-per-hour faster. My wife’s latent stress fracture never materialized; she’s happy. The kayak didn’t capsize in the rapids; my son had a great time sailing his pirate’s flag. We earned the medals that we had already received. Near as I can tell, CycloMonkey had a good time. Any extra anxiety was unwarranted. My son wants to sell my kayak and buy himself a river/surf kayak – lighter, more maneuverable. Yes, there’s something wrong with the pronouns in that previous sentence. Credit for being clever; it never hurts to try.

Will there be a next time? You’ll have to keep reading.

Cruisin' Alaska with CycloMonkey, Part 2

Sunrise in Skagway, Alaska, comes at 4:00am in July. And the blackout shades in our cruise ship’s state room leak enough around the edges to confirm it. So “bright and early” is exaggerated.  And with a sunset round about 10:30 the night before, “O-dark-thirty” never really happens. And therefore a good night’s sleep never really happens either. But there’s CycloMonkey, looking at me like I’ve over-slept on Christmas morning. “The ship’s already docked. Can we go ride?”

Even though we had a great ride yesterday and covered 40 miles, there’s a new cycling adventure on tap today. We had signed up for one of the Princess Cruises’ excursions called “Summit to Sea,” a bicycle ride offered by the Sockeye Cycle Company (somehow related to Cycle Alaska, I believe). For this ride, I won’t need my shoes and pedals, I won’t bring my own helmet and I won’t even wear a proper cycling kit. This isn’t about exertion; it’s about coasting and taking in the sights.

Skagway is a borough (meaning “county”, not a city) in a narrow, glaciated valley on the northern-most fjord on the Inside Passage, 90 miles north of Juneau. According to Wikipedia, the name Skagway was derived from shԍagéi, a word the native Tlingit used for “rough seas in the Taiya Inlet.” The actual meaning translates to “beautiful woman” more or less. But there is a Tlingit legend about a mythical woman named Kanagu whose nickname is shԍagéi and is said to have transformed herself into stone in this area and then caused the strong winds to blow toward the neighboring town (today’s Haines, Alaska). That wind causes the rough seas which the locals referred to by her nickname.  Sadly, in the time it took you to read this story, you could have walked the 25 blocks from one end of town to the other.

Skagway became important because gold was found in 1896 in the Klondike in Canada’s Yukon Territory. Even though the gold fields were 500 miles away, this was a convenient port from which to start. The population swelled to 30,000 and a railroad was started to take prospectors up and over the White Pass. By 1899, the stream of gold-seekers had diminished and Skagway's economy began to collapse. By 1900, when the railroad was completed, the gold rush was nearly over. Today the year-round population is a little over 900 but each summer, with seasonal workers and cruise ships, it swells to over 6,000. Including my wife and me on this beautiful day.

A van with a trailer-full of hybrid bikes was waiting at the bottom of the gangway. We signed waivers and filled out forms that asked how many times we’d ridden a bike in the last three years. My wife wrote none; I saw some other tourists write single-digit numbers. I started extrapolating my weekly rides to 150-odd weeks and decided to just write 1,000. (Checking today, I started using Strava in Feb., 2012, and it says I’ve logged 1132 rides.)  I introduced CycloMonkey to the guide and the other cyclists. Alas, no lifelong friends or future travel companions in this group.

The van took us up the mountain on the opposite side of the canyon from the White Pass and Yukon railway which slowly hauls tourists a bit farther than we were going. At a wide spot in the road near the 3,200-foot summit sign, the van let us out and we got fitted to our bikes. From that vantage point, we could see the Canadian border and British Columbia on the other side – we could have thrown a rock that far. My wife and I were tempted to bike down there just to cross into Canada – we had our passports with us – but the guide didn’t make that offer. There’s no border guard or passport check there. Instead, the Canadian customs building is a few miles further inland, and the U.S. customs building is a few miles downhill in the other direction – making this wide spot in the road some sort of international no-man’s land. Intriguing, eh? (1)

Our guide, Matthew Jillson, asked us to ride single-file and not pass each other. He took the lead in order to control the pace and asked me – since I was 1,000 times more experienced than the others – to bring up the rear. And with that and a single pedal stroke, we were coasting down the mountain (on the brakes already).

Along with CycloMonkey in my backpack and a few little things, I had my Garmin bike computer to capture the ride details. Over the 14 miles and 3,204 feet of descending, we actually had 108 feet of climbing – that’s it! The average speed was governed to about 12mph, but somewhere along the way Garmin says I clocked 32mph. I certainly don’t remember that. It also says we had a full hour of stationary time; i.e., resting from all the coasting. At the one and only climbing portion, we stopped before and after the climb. My wife asked if we could go back down and climb it again – apparently such enthusiasm for exercise is rare among the cruiser clientele.

We coasted, then stopped for pictures, then coasted some more and discussed geography, history and the transient lifestyle of seasonal workers with our guide. Jillson, as he’s known, is from Vermont but attended film school in L.A., lives in Seattle and is constantly roaming the world working in jobs like this. Apparently there’s some sort of 24-hour mountain bike ride on the summer solstice, when you can ride for 24 hours without needing headlights. And you can hike from Skagway to Haines in a day, take a half-hour boat ride there, or take the road for 350 miles round-trip. The latter takes you to Whitehorse, the capital of Yukon Territory and it sounded like the most appealing option! Skagway is a rare city in this part of Alaska that is actually connected to the lower 48 by paved roads.

The views were fantastic from the top and it was warm, clear day. Around every bend would be some new spectacular scenery. Little by little, we descended until the 25 little blocks of civilization came into view. But long before that, the towering cruise ships in the harbor dominated the landscape, er, seascape as it were. The cruise trade completely transforms this area from May to September. Jillson says that none of his friends use their cell phone or try to get on the internet when the ships are in port. Everything is satellite up here – no fiber optic cables over the mountains – and the cruisers consume so much bandwidth that data traffic slows to a crawl. First world problems. A bigger problem is getting groceries. The barge comes in on Tuesdays and stocks the local grocery. If you miss that day, or if one of the restaurants screws up their order, you might not get bread or milk that week.

Once we got back to town, I bought a Sockeye Cycle coffee mug and another jersey. Then we wandered around town and had lunch at the Skagway Brewing Co.  Skagway was a fascinating little place and my favorite port of the trip. In the afternoon, we tried our hand at glassblowing. But that’s another story and no place for a monkey.

FOOTNOTES:

(1) Did you like my Canadian “eh?” there?  That translates loosely to the British “innit” which was derived from “isn’t it?” and basically gets appended to almost any sentence as an audible endpoint. It’s not actually a question that requires an answer.

Cruisin' Alaska with CycloMonkey, Part 1

When it’s summer in this part of California, you look for someplace to cool off. This summer, the family vacation plan is a cruise to Alaska. Having long since reached the point where our teenage son preferred his independence from the parental unit, we agreed he could bring a friend. And despite an askance look from my one and only, I brought along a friend, too: CycloMonkey.

Without a valid passport, CycloMonkey had to keep a low profile since we would be in international waters and spend one day in a Canadian port. As you frequent readers know, he’s comfortable around cycling gear so he stowed away with my helmet, shoes and other cycling gear. That forced him into the trunk of the limousine, through the x-ray at baggage check and up the service elevator to our state room on the Golden Princess. After that, it was a normal vacation – as if a floating hotel the size of a small city can be considered normal. Yes, CycloMonkey was more than a little concerned that a gust of wind might sweep him off the balcony and out to sea. And no, sea sickness is not a problem for someone with fluffed up cotton in his stomach. For him, a comfortable monotony set in with the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean sliding by at a pokey 25mph. After two and a half days, we pulled up to the docks in Alaska’s capital, Juneau, on the 4th of July.

Wikipedia says that Juneau has a population of around 33,000 people which is tiny even compared to most Bay Area suburbs. It really can’t get much bigger because there isn’t enough flat ground for people to live on; the mountains rise up almost immediately from the sea. This happens to also be southeast Alaska which means it is technically a temperate rain forest and it was quite warm while we were there. Immediately after disembarking and skirting the tacky touristy area, we walked over to the local bike shop, Cycle Alaska, where I had reserved a proper road bike for the afternoon. For a moment, it looked like several rounds of Alaskan Amber were in my future when I saw the “closed on July 4th” sign in the window. But only the storefront was closed, the rental portion was open for us tourists. Hoping for a 56cm carbon Cervelo RCA, I faced the reality of a 58cm aluminum Trek 1-Series. Either that or have my knees bump my elbows on a 52cm version, so okay. Surprisingly, it fit well enough and I even had to raise the seat a couple centimeters. The reach wasn’t too bad, it shifted well, standard cassette, brakes are good, tires fair.

The nice young lady who set up the bike seemed enamored with CycloMonkey. What’s not to like? She knew the route that I had planned, but then again there are only so many paved roads and they only go so far. Despite being on the continent, not an island, there are no roads to or from Juneau – it’s just too rugged. She said I’d be fine and not to worry if I returned after closing time, just call and she’ll come back. Cool, one less worry. I tucked CycloMonkey into the handlebar bag and headed over the bridge to Douglas Island while my wife walked downtown looking for the capitol building and Sarah Palin’s old place. No, you cannot see Russia from here. Within a brief few minutes I was away from civilization and looking for my sole left turn. Eaglecrest Ski Area is on Douglas Island and the entry road up the mountain serves as the local bike club’s time trial course in the summer months. No KOM for me and my monkey today but it was a good, refreshing climb.

CycloMonkey was oblivious to the mortal danger lurking behind any tree, but I was worried about bears. Oh sure, attacks are rare but I didn’t want to become a statistic. If the chances are one in a billion, I still don’t want to be the one. I had asked, and the advice was not to run (or ride downhill like a scared rabbit in my case) and not to yell which would be counter to my natural instinct. Instead, I’m supposed to stop and let them finish whatever they are doing (eating tourists?) and talk to them like they were a four-year-old child, “Hello nice Mr. Bear, how are you? I’m just out here riding my bicycle. I’m not dangerous.” Yeah, right. A four-year-old meat-eating monster, twice my height and four times as hungry with big fangs, bigger claws, bad breath and spraying drool as he roars “I’m hungry!” Okay, maybe those last bits are like some four-year-olds. Fortunately, despite the densely wooded wilderness there were no bear sightings today. I’m sure the relative heatwave (mid-70s) helped my cause. And Fish Creek didn’t look like it had many fish.

Ascending, the view was mostly trees and more trees and blue skies with fluffy white clouds. Very few cars. No cyclists. No other monkeys. I got my heartrate up; it was a good hill. I slid my arm warmers down. I started to do the math and try to recall how long this hill actually was. Another false flat? Finally, signs of a summit. At the parking lot for the ski lodge, we stopped and looked around a bit. There were some other tourists collecting around some rental mountain bikes. I recognized the tour guide from Cycle Alaska. They headed up the trails; I headed back down the paved road. Descending, the view offered some distant snow-capped mountains, hanging glaciers and glimpses of Gastineau Channel. I had plenty of time so we turned left at the main road in search of the pavement’s end. It’s really quite stunning wherever you look. Photos do not do it justice. The day was perfect. The calm waters were filled with boaters enjoying the holiday and enjoying the freakishly long day of sunshine (sunrise 4am, sunset 10:30pm). The 4th of July fireworks here are set off at midnight, the preceding night, because that’s about when it’s finally dark enough.

Finally, we ran out of pavement and turned around. The sights were just as amazing in the other direction. CycloMonkey was speechless. Rather than give in to my normal predisposition for arriving early, we headed back up Fish Creek Road toward Eaglecrest again. Oh, what was I thinking? I’m on vacation; this is no time for suffering up a 10% grade for the fun of it. Perhaps if I had that Cervelo, but no. However, two things were interesting on this second climb to the first false-flat: another cyclist that I was able to catch up to (ego boost), and a unicyclist coming down the hill (this is Alaska, it’s different up here). Alas, no photo-evidence of either – just trust me.

Back down the hill, around the island, over the bridge and back to Cycle Alaska where Laura (or was it Briana?) was working at her laptop in the ever-midday sun by the garage door. They aren’t paying me to say this, but I recommend Cycle Alaska if you’re ever up this way. I took my pedals back, showed her these CycloMonkey photos and then walked the half-mile back toward the docks. With CycloMonkey safely tucked in my backpack, my wife and I headed to the famous Red Dog Saloon and its sawdust floor for a very enjoyable Alaskan Amber.

Take Your Monkey to Work Day

For as long as he’s been out from under the passenger seat of my car, CycloMonkey has been begging to go for bike rides. It doesn’t matter where or when. We’ve ventured out a little farther each time. And this morning I had planned to let him join me on the commute ride to work.

My backpack has four little elastic loops and I though perhaps CycloMonkey could hold on to each one and ride backwards, spread eagle, and talk to my drafting partners. So at 5:45am, we tried out the backpack. Nope, doesn’t work. The loops were too small.  “Sorry buddy, not today. Back on the hook for you.” And I put him back on my bike rack in the garage.

He didn’t complain. He just stared at me. “Oh, stop it.” I couldn’t put him in my jersey pocket because the backpack would cover his head. That’s no way to go. “No, sorry, you can’t go today.” Stare. Silence. More staring. “Okay, you can ride in my backpack and you can stick your head out.”

As with most days commuting, I met up with my buddies at 6:00am at the appointed location, waited the requisite two minutes for stragglers then rolled out in formation. The first third of the ride is mostly flat, as suburbia slips away and we pick up a little bit of speed. With six of us, we each get one pull up front and a couple of us get two turns before we start the climb up Calaveras. At that point, I’m fatigued and use the climb to recover while a couple of the stronger riders carry a quicker pace up the hill only to wait there for me and the rest. CycloMonkey stays quiet through it all, not engaging much with the others and quietly wondering about mountain lion attacks. Mountain lions are quite unlike the lions he’s familiar with but equally deadly – especially if you are zipped up in a bite-sized backpack.

We stop somewhere along “the rollers” (the middle third) since this is CycloMonkey’s first glimpse of Calaveras Reservoir. Then it’s up to me to catch up to the peloton who seem to have put the hammer down. They wait patiently at the top of the wall then we tuck and zoom down the hill at speeds exceeding 40mph. For a tiny monkey facing backwards, it’s both terrifying and exhilarating. Until it’s not. At the bottom of the hill we encounter civilization again. Stoplights, traffic, construction, noise, more traffic, more stoplights, until we reach the two-story, concrete tilt-up with faux tiles and pointless stucko columns that I call my office. Milpitas, Silicon Valley, USA.

For eight hours, CycloMonkey literally hangs out in my office – dangling off the top pull of my four-drawer filing cabinet. Compelling hours for me; mind-numbing for a monkey. Then finally it’s time to commute home. It’s a different crew of riders heading home and the reverse path of the morning ride. Much like his home continent, it’s hot. Instead of zooming downhill at 40mph, we climb with the sun beating on my backpack and practically no breeze. My temperature gage on the Garmin clicks away like the odometer: 95, 96, 97 …103, 104, 105 degrees. Yes, that’s hot. No bother, as long as we’re riding.

Then we descend and power through the last third of the ride in a simulated time trial. CycloMonkey has no idea what a time trial is, nor why we don't stop and explore. But he also doesn't know about being late for dinner. He's a stuffed animal, after all. Let's not forget that.

And finally we are back home.