It was a bit of an ordeal getting here, but we are here. Let me back up a bit...
The last three days of San Francisco were pretty uneventful. As I left it last, I still had a bike to go. I had two more runs to do. Other than that, it was site seeing with the family. So, let me break it down.
The Ride
Friday was my last chance to ride. I decided to extend my bike rental at least one more day (from Thursday), but when I called to set it up the nice Russian bike mechanic told me in semi-broken English the bike was reserved already. So I headed in to return it. Once there, he told me he did have another bike, this time a carbon-framed one, and asked if I would be interested. It was $5 more, but why not? I had to explore that road. This would be it though... he made it clear the bike was already reserved over the weekend. Whatever I had left to do, I'd have to do it now.
I wanted to go back to the Headlands. That road, the one I'd been afraid to take the day before, beckoned, taunting me actually, and could not let it go unchallenged. I quickly made my way to the bridge and across, through construction and up into the hills.
The first climb is a long one. It starts the moment you decide to leave the main road and doesn't stop for over two miles. It breaks in places, and only initially did it feel steeper than what we would ordinarily see (think Mt. Guthrie, but longer). The main thing was the hills were much longer in length. Riders dotted the road above me, and I resolved to one-by-one pick them off. Yea, I was proud of the fact I was climbing better than the natives - if indeed they all were. In time I spotted a yellow jacket about a quarter mile ahead, and figured I might just catch that one before I made the crest.
I caught him earlier than I thought. He was tall and slim, not skinny, rather lean and sinewy. He had silvering hair that flowed out from under his helmet. He wasn't breathing hard, pedaling though he was at a high cadence on his mountain bike. Mounted on his handlebars were two notable items: an Edge 500 and a Hero Cam. This was going to get interesting.
It didn't take long to strike a conversation. I had in mind to pass and forget him, but as I told him good job and began to move by, he picked up his pace, and soon we were discussing our professions, our love of riding, and the road ahead. He asked me if I was going over the top. To reaffirm the course, I asked if it came back out at the roundabout, which he assured me it did. We paused at the edge of the looming precipice, not from fear, rather to allow the truck ahead of us time to descend. You see, the road had many switchbacks, the air was foggy and misty, and his plan was to record his overly fast journey down that steep drop.
I assured him I had no such designs; I didn't know the road, it was foggy, and oh yeah, I was on a rented bike. Steve - that's right, that was his name - said he'd wait for me at the bottom. Then he pushed off. It was reminiscent of a downhill skier going over the lip of some mountainside.
I followed directly, and became immediately aware of how steep the drop was. The sign on the road said 18% - and I believe it! That wasn't the grade I was worried most about however... though I couldn't see it through the misty fog, I was quite aware of where I was, and that just over the rail the grade went up to 100% for 600 feet or so. One little mistake and my shrill girl battle cry would have drowned out the unending dirge of the San Francisco fog horn.
Down and downer, back and forth, the road did its best to shake me off its back. I clung tenaciously, torn between my heart's desire for thrills and my head's desire to see my family again. I could feel my weight shifting forward as I applied brakes, wondering if there was enough power in those small calipers to alter the fate the hillside wished upon me. Ere long I saw Steve again, coming to a halt slightly ahead of me. It turned out I hadn't done too poorly, at least in relation to Steve. There was a bit of satisfaction there.
We rode through the ensuing valley, winding through mottled vegetation and brownish/olive views. The area had a slightly arid feel to it, not such that rain was a complete stranger, rather an infrequent visitor. Soon the path rose again as it must, and we began to climb back to the roundabout mentioned earlier. Once there, we had a nearly two-mile drop to the main road, not as steep as the earlier descent, but with cliffs just as steep on the other side of the rail. As we dropped below the fog line I could see I was having no trouble staying with Steve - in fact, I was having to brake to stay off his wheel. We finished the Headlands, moved over the bridge where we parted ways for good.
The Runs
Saturday is the end of my training week, and as I hadn't run since Wednesday, I was forced to do a longer run again. My week's total stood at 28; I like to get 35. Five miles wouldn't do. I needed seven. It seemed to me I could just run from the condo to the base of the bridge (Crissy Field) and back and I'd have it. Simple enough, except I'm me.
Trivia: San Francisco is the 2nd most densely populated city in the country. It has over 17,000 people per square mile in a city of over 3,000,000 and a metropolitan area of over 8,000,000. The city is proud of its healthy appeal, and provides for exercise in its myriad forms. Running and biking paths are everywhere, and runners and bikers are everywhere too.
Which makes San Francisco in IronBill's eyes to be the world's largest continuous road race.
Every runner in front of me had to be passed. Groups were even better. I didn't discriminate. Old, young, male and female, they had to be passed. Walking a dog? Tough! Get outta the way. And so, as I leapfrogged from imagined victory to imagined victory, time and distance melted away. I returned with 9 miles and many scalps that day.
Sunday, the last morning, I needed a 5-miler. Of course I let my competitive side get the better of me again, and of course I passed people, and yes, I went farther than I planned. This time I stopped at 5, period. It would be the last time I laid eyes on this area, and I thought a slow walk for a mile might be just the ticket. That too sounds like a great idea until you realize the wind was blowing 30 mph and it was a cloudy 60 degrees. Not exactly strolling weather in wet clothes!
All that done, I showered, finished packing, and loaded the family up. And with that, San Francisco disappeared in the rear-view mirror.
The flight out of SFO went just fine. I figured that would. What worried me was the line of storms developing in Iowa and Illinois. I had nightmarish flashbacks of JFK when Leisa and I returned from Europe, being delayed by weather for over 5 hours.
In Denver we were delayed, but not by weather. The plane had to be changed for some undetermined reason. After we boarded, attendants began pointing at the tail. Half an hour passed as one person after another came to look at the tail. Apparently a bird struck the plane earlier, but it was deemed airworthy, so a full hour late, we took off.
Landing in Indy a full hour behind, I lamented the ever shortening night of sleep I would have. Practice would be bright and early, and I was going to be there no matter what. So, once home, I quickly unpacked my bags and hopped in bed. All too soon the alarm rang, and the day began anew.
Two runs and 10 miles later (along with a lift) the day is over. Finally.
Pace line tomorrow!
The last three days of San Francisco were pretty uneventful. As I left it last, I still had a bike to go. I had two more runs to do. Other than that, it was site seeing with the family. So, let me break it down.
The Ride
Friday was my last chance to ride. I decided to extend my bike rental at least one more day (from Thursday), but when I called to set it up the nice Russian bike mechanic told me in semi-broken English the bike was reserved already. So I headed in to return it. Once there, he told me he did have another bike, this time a carbon-framed one, and asked if I would be interested. It was $5 more, but why not? I had to explore that road. This would be it though... he made it clear the bike was already reserved over the weekend. Whatever I had left to do, I'd have to do it now.
I wanted to go back to the Headlands. That road, the one I'd been afraid to take the day before, beckoned, taunting me actually, and could not let it go unchallenged. I quickly made my way to the bridge and across, through construction and up into the hills.
The first climb is a long one. It starts the moment you decide to leave the main road and doesn't stop for over two miles. It breaks in places, and only initially did it feel steeper than what we would ordinarily see (think Mt. Guthrie, but longer). The main thing was the hills were much longer in length. Riders dotted the road above me, and I resolved to one-by-one pick them off. Yea, I was proud of the fact I was climbing better than the natives - if indeed they all were. In time I spotted a yellow jacket about a quarter mile ahead, and figured I might just catch that one before I made the crest.
I caught him earlier than I thought. He was tall and slim, not skinny, rather lean and sinewy. He had silvering hair that flowed out from under his helmet. He wasn't breathing hard, pedaling though he was at a high cadence on his mountain bike. Mounted on his handlebars were two notable items: an Edge 500 and a Hero Cam. This was going to get interesting.
It didn't take long to strike a conversation. I had in mind to pass and forget him, but as I told him good job and began to move by, he picked up his pace, and soon we were discussing our professions, our love of riding, and the road ahead. He asked me if I was going over the top. To reaffirm the course, I asked if it came back out at the roundabout, which he assured me it did. We paused at the edge of the looming precipice, not from fear, rather to allow the truck ahead of us time to descend. You see, the road had many switchbacks, the air was foggy and misty, and his plan was to record his overly fast journey down that steep drop.
I assured him I had no such designs; I didn't know the road, it was foggy, and oh yeah, I was on a rented bike. Steve - that's right, that was his name - said he'd wait for me at the bottom. Then he pushed off. It was reminiscent of a downhill skier going over the lip of some mountainside.
I followed directly, and became immediately aware of how steep the drop was. The sign on the road said 18% - and I believe it! That wasn't the grade I was worried most about however... though I couldn't see it through the misty fog, I was quite aware of where I was, and that just over the rail the grade went up to 100% for 600 feet or so. One little mistake and my shrill girl battle cry would have drowned out the unending dirge of the San Francisco fog horn.
Down and downer, back and forth, the road did its best to shake me off its back. I clung tenaciously, torn between my heart's desire for thrills and my head's desire to see my family again. I could feel my weight shifting forward as I applied brakes, wondering if there was enough power in those small calipers to alter the fate the hillside wished upon me. Ere long I saw Steve again, coming to a halt slightly ahead of me. It turned out I hadn't done too poorly, at least in relation to Steve. There was a bit of satisfaction there.
We rode through the ensuing valley, winding through mottled vegetation and brownish/olive views. The area had a slightly arid feel to it, not such that rain was a complete stranger, rather an infrequent visitor. Soon the path rose again as it must, and we began to climb back to the roundabout mentioned earlier. Once there, we had a nearly two-mile drop to the main road, not as steep as the earlier descent, but with cliffs just as steep on the other side of the rail. As we dropped below the fog line I could see I was having no trouble staying with Steve - in fact, I was having to brake to stay off his wheel. We finished the Headlands, moved over the bridge where we parted ways for good.
The Runs
Saturday is the end of my training week, and as I hadn't run since Wednesday, I was forced to do a longer run again. My week's total stood at 28; I like to get 35. Five miles wouldn't do. I needed seven. It seemed to me I could just run from the condo to the base of the bridge (Crissy Field) and back and I'd have it. Simple enough, except I'm me.
Trivia: San Francisco is the 2nd most densely populated city in the country. It has over 17,000 people per square mile in a city of over 3,000,000 and a metropolitan area of over 8,000,000. The city is proud of its healthy appeal, and provides for exercise in its myriad forms. Running and biking paths are everywhere, and runners and bikers are everywhere too.
Which makes San Francisco in IronBill's eyes to be the world's largest continuous road race.
Every runner in front of me had to be passed. Groups were even better. I didn't discriminate. Old, young, male and female, they had to be passed. Walking a dog? Tough! Get outta the way. And so, as I leapfrogged from imagined victory to imagined victory, time and distance melted away. I returned with 9 miles and many scalps that day.
Sunday, the last morning, I needed a 5-miler. Of course I let my competitive side get the better of me again, and of course I passed people, and yes, I went farther than I planned. This time I stopped at 5, period. It would be the last time I laid eyes on this area, and I thought a slow walk for a mile might be just the ticket. That too sounds like a great idea until you realize the wind was blowing 30 mph and it was a cloudy 60 degrees. Not exactly strolling weather in wet clothes!
All that done, I showered, finished packing, and loaded the family up. And with that, San Francisco disappeared in the rear-view mirror.
The flight out of SFO went just fine. I figured that would. What worried me was the line of storms developing in Iowa and Illinois. I had nightmarish flashbacks of JFK when Leisa and I returned from Europe, being delayed by weather for over 5 hours.
In Denver we were delayed, but not by weather. The plane had to be changed for some undetermined reason. After we boarded, attendants began pointing at the tail. Half an hour passed as one person after another came to look at the tail. Apparently a bird struck the plane earlier, but it was deemed airworthy, so a full hour late, we took off.
Landing in Indy a full hour behind, I lamented the ever shortening night of sleep I would have. Practice would be bright and early, and I was going to be there no matter what. So, once home, I quickly unpacked my bags and hopped in bed. All too soon the alarm rang, and the day began anew.
Two runs and 10 miles later (along with a lift) the day is over. Finally.
Pace line tomorrow!
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