Momentum

Bonita Lighthouse and Tiburon Loop

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The solitary nature of my life is not easy to tell. Compared to my time in Vermont, I am considerably alone. When I arrived at UVM I started seeing Samantha almost immediately, and from that point on I was not alone until a year ago. February 14th I sent her a dozen anonymous roses, and that was the last "good thing" I did for her. I was, in her words, a bad boyfriend. She was right. I did not treat her as if we had a future, for deep down I knew we didn't. Disillusioned by my indecisiveness about our relationship and with UVM in general, she pulled out of her excursion into Northern New England and started to reconnect with her roots: Judaism (or identifying as a Jew) and New York values and culture. I realize now I caught her in the typical post-high school discovery phase, when the Jewish suburban girl ventures to Vermont to lead a "green" life, save the planet and date a local backwoods boy.
So it has been a year and 4 months since I've been out here, and I've been alone--just to reiterate. It is what I sought in Burlington quite often, and what I was able to get growing up in Maine . The rail-road tracks use to be my refuge. It is more than a cliché: the rurally raised, discontent youth taking his guitar down to the tracks and writing tortured prose and poetry. Clichés exist, sometimes, because they are unavoidably ubiquitous.

Since I've discovered cycling I feel as if I've returned to those tracks in Central Maine. I set out alone and spend time in a solitary state; me, music and my wandering mind. Signing up for the Lifecycle as given me plenty of motivation to get out and on the road.

I spent a solitary Friday morning with coffee and a book (The Selfish Gene) in Alamo Square Park. Later, my good friend Steph took me surfing for the first time. It did really well at first, popped up on the board and all. But, about 2 hours in I began to get sea sick.

Saturday morning I set out to tackle a headland ride I've been meaning to do for a while. It was suppose to be a small ride, but turned into a sizable day of riding. After crossing the bridge I continued up a considerable grade, probably 800ft in 1.5miles. My gearing was acting up, so I didn't climb this impediment as gracefully as I normally would. Yet, I cannot help but notice the constant and delightful improvement I made from week to week.I took this picture (left) at the top of the climb.

The descent down the back was incredibly steep. I was on my way to Bonita Lighthouse, perched on dark, sheer, distinctly Northern Californian cliffs located at that

famous opening to San Francisco Bay. This picture is from a lookout just North(right). I continued east into beautifully perserve landscape of hills and valleys with plently of winding trails for mountain biking and hiking. Would you believe that I'm less than 5 miles from a major city?

I rode through on tireless legs, jamming to my iPOD and thoroughly enjoying the warm sun. It is amazing how quickly the temperature rises as you move inland. After passing through a tunnel that bores under the most coastal hills of the headlands, I turned onto the road leading to Sausalito. I could've turned right and headed for home, but I just didn't want to stop. This is pattenly unlikely me. I catch myself really pushing while I ride.

Below are some pictures I took from Tiburon, a rich little town at the end of the loop I tacked on to the Lighthouse ride. I talked to my sister while I was on the phone and told her I would post these pictures I took while we spoke. These are for you Natalie...

At the end of the day I was pretty impressed with myself. I did 55 miles and 3600ft of climbing, averaging 14.3 miles an hour. Strong enough for now, but I've got much greater challenges to train for! Aidslifecycle.org/5423 donate today! and thank you.

Get your money's worth

San Francisco to Santa Cruz via Highway One

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Getting your money's worth...

Not by going to Costco, by riding your bike to Santa Cruz; I run on cheaply on 3 Clif bars.

My training needs to fit around my life, you see. So, when Ally told me about a birthday party I "simply must attend", I decided to combine training with pleasure. It is 80 miles from SF to Santa Cruz. I would've been my longest ride, and I'd be doing it by myself.

Sometime in the middle of the week I saw my downstairs neighbor Dave, a very well-rounded, very smart, atheletic Stanford alum. It was on my way out for a ride and the subject of my inpeding journey came up. To my great relief he offered to go with me.

So Saturday morning we started out around 9am from San Francisco and into uncharted (for us) roadways south. We hit hills immediately south of the city, and the climbs increased in length and grade until, around mile 25, we ascended up a sizable knoll separating the towns of Pacifica and Half Moon Bay. It was hell so early in the ride. The scencery was straight out of the California tourism commercial: winding roads, steap kaki-sided cliffs topped with green velt and a pewter see beyond. The day was full of fog for the first part of the ride, but peaked out and through the fog to let its beams dance on the distance water. I was too hypoxyic to enjoy it then, but it is beautiful to recall now.

The road flattened out after Half Moon Bay, however we never escaped the constant uphill downhill motif of Rte 1. The amplitude of the hills decreased, thankfully, so we could enjoy the sights of coast.

The miles past, 50, 60, 70. I officially passed 500 miles on my bike odometer. I also surpassed my original distance record of 55 miles. The last 10 miles into Santa Cruz presented us with some of the steeper hills. Thankfully, there were introduced by equally impressive down grades. It was actually possible to get enough momentum to make it up 3/4 of most the hills before gearing down and pumping.

I could go on and on about the night that followed. I could tell you that Dave, Ally, company and I drank heroic amounts of booze, and that I fell asleep at 9:30pm. But I'll let some pictures do the talking.

Dry spell

If you've been keeping up with my log then you know I've not quit or dropped of the face of the Earth. If you haven't, then you probably suspected I did.



The weekend of the 10th and 11th I took a glorious little respite in Wine Country, just North of the Bay Area in an area know as Russian river. It was Mike's (my friend Julie's long-time boyfriend) 30th birthday. I met a great group of people and made an enormous ass out of myself, in my usual fashion (road rage). It was all wine and song and, then at 3:30am on the 11th, some tequila. F-U-N.

During that next week I was kinda all business. I did two solid rides on Monday and Thursday after work.
Thursday's ride was particularly interesting, as it included a small hike on some trails (I got lost in the Presidio). It involved me lifting my bike up onto my shoulder, and while grunting prehistorically, hiking about 1000ft through the woods. Again, F-U-N. But I get ahead of myself. I started out going through the Presidio on my normal route to the Bridge, but I decided to go west. I rode into the Sea Cliff area of San Francisco, a very exclusive neighborhood with big beautiful homes behind big beautiful gates. Robin William's main residence is in this area, just to give a measure of the caliber of the inhabitants.

Anyway, I found my way up a unexpected, huge hill (well, it is San Francisco so it was not COMPLETELY unexpected), but I was rewarded well for my efforts. That the crest of the hill sat the Palace of Fine Arts. Yeah, never been inside, but the outside is awesome, especially if you like neo-Greco-Roman architecture (and I do). Plus, there were great views of the Bridge and the Downtown Area. I love this about living in a city. I feel like all this things, these most famous things, are MINE. It is weird, cause they are most definitely not. But still, I look at the bridge and the Palace: those are mine.

So, I departed from that hill top with all the monuments I "own", went on my little trek and took a picture of a big golden sunset. It was just me, my bike and the glory of creation in front of me. It is strange that I always seem to fall in love when I am reverent of the natural world. It brings out the goodness in me, and that has been missing lately. Oh, that sun set: I got it with my Sony digital camera. Now that is mine too, yours if you want it.

East Bay CAT ride 1

Route


So they call it the East Bay because it is East of the Bay, that makes perfect sense. The organizers of the training ride called it "CAT 1" (category 1?) because it is the least difficult of the training rides, or it was suppose to be. In truth and experience, it was one of the most physically challenging 4 hours of my life. I've never done that much demanding work for that amount of time, and, frankly I was surprised at how well I handled it.

Turns out, I was at a significant disadvantage due to my bike. I've got two large rings on my crank, you see. Most people there had a triple, with a smaller front ring (gear). This meant they could gear down quite a bit more than me on the big climbs--there were some substantial vertical impediments. People with a triple can "spin" faster up the hills, effectively exerting less energy (but going at a slower speed). During the climbs I would catchup to people, then lag behind on flats (cause I was too tired to expend energy for speed).

The good news is I was at the front of the pack for most of the time despite my handicap. In addition to harder gearing, I had done the entire Tiburon loop (50 miles from my house) the day before! As you can imagine, I was not on completely fresh legs. I like to brag when I can, and now is a good time. I'm strong and I kicked ass.

Along with the overt ego boost, the ride offered some of the best scenary I've yet experienced in the Bay Area. Marin is beautiful, not doubt. But the East Bay has a particular charm that is not easily described (secretely suburban?). The parts I was biking through on the file quarter of the ride were wooded and hilly, with glimpses through the foliage to deep valleys bottomed with streams And on and on it seems to go eastward. Again, you have the curious growth trees in the hollows and creases of these hills. Some hillsides will be covered with greenery and others, barely a little grass. I suppose it is only curious because I grew up in Maine, and there you have forest literally everywhere, except for where the land as been cleared for agriculture. Vermont, more heavily farmed than Maine, offers the a complete contrast from the hills of northern California. Vermont's Valleys are flat and broad and filled with low brush or crops. The hills are forested.

About 15 miles into the ride and just after a long 2 mile climb we reached Skyline Blvd in the Berkeley hills. I could hardly believe I was in the same part of the world as those rolling, green hills I looked upon 10 minutes earlier. Stretched out before me was almost entire Bay Area, a white urban sprawl, lapping the bay on all interior sides. With all my time out here a sense of scale as not been forthcoming. With 6 million people living in the Bay Area, I thought it not possible to gaze on it in with a sweep of my head from any high point. But here, I did exactly that.




Our climbing was not done just yet. Along Skyline there were more uphills. Dipping back into cool Eucalyptus and Redwood forests we were presented with more inclining road. The road snaked around and was mostly cut into the hillside. Landslides are something of a daily event here, as evidenced by the large rocks laying at the feet of sheer cliffs, feet that doubled as the breakdown lane. As in Marin, people love to literally live on the edge in the Berkeley hills. Houses were perched impossibly on the sheer slides of hills. The hills themselves appeared to be composed of very loose soil. A heavy rain and a concurrent moderate earthquake could send all these very lovely dwellings careening down the hillsides; hapless macro-sleds of destruction. I think I invented a new extreme sport.

I met a really cool, very positive and energetic guy named Steve. On the few, brief rest stops I allowed myself we introduced and then reintroduced ourselves. There was a bail out point at mile 30, and I was more than tempted by the thought of gorging myself on something fat and greasy back in the city, instead of finishing the rest of the ride. Steve's energy arched over that temptation and gave me the clarity to see the symbolism in pressing on. After all, I committed to this challenge as a way identify with people in this country living with HIV. The ride is similar to the daily struggle for HIV+ individuals to stay healthy, to abstain from destructive behavior, despite the side-effects of drugs they must take to keep the virus at bay. It also symbolizes the perseverance HIV/AIDS researches must possess to study this continually frustrating disease. Lastly, and let me not forget, the tenacity of individuals on the front line of the pandemic, the selfless health care and social workers in Sub-Saharan Africa, India, Russia and China. I strive to have a quarter of their commitment, and they will be battling every effect and aspect of this pandemic long after I've completed my trip to LA.

Descending on the last leg of the ride, along San Pablo Dam road, I was met with a serene view of the San Pablo Reservoir, set against those beautiful Nor-Cal hills.

I reached the BART station and met up with Steve once again. We chatted for the entire train ride back to the city. He was/is Kansas native: grew up there, went to college there. He has been here as long as I have, living with his girlfriend on Market street. I decided that I've not meet a person from the Mid West I've not liked.

So, that's it. 50 miles down yesterday, 90 miles in the past two days: all be good and ready come June! If you are reading this remember to help me raise money for AID/HIV research and services. Kindly Donate at: AIDSLIFECYCLE.ORG/5423

A visual tour of my rides to the Beach

This entry will essentially be a visual tour of Golden Gate Park, which I ride through on my way to the beach. This is my favorite short ride, well worth the hour it takes to complete a roundtrip.
Above is the De Young Musuem, one of the first structures nestled within the green velt of the park. Below is the Conservatory of Flowers. This day people were sun bathing on the lawns flanking the Conservatory. Ah.
































These two pictures are of the interesting courtyard of the De Young. The nobby trees in the two pictures are a mystery to me. They're planted in various places throughout the city. They are deciduous, and so they don't have leaves now.



Buffalo paddock. That's right... Buffalo.




Almost there...


Beach! Ocean!

Ships spewing exhaust!

Turning back to the park...

Tiburon Loop

Tiburon Loop:

I had to be back to San Francisco by 2pm. That colored the rest of the ride, but that's not to say that it was a bad or rough time. In fact it was completely wonderful, except I had to rush at the end.

The Aids Life Cycle Foundation and its staff organize all sorts of events ranging from training rides to fund raising workshops to help us participants. Today, I decided to accompany my fellow ALC6 riders on a "CAT" training ride. I enjoyed the "CAT" naming of these series of training rides; my life had been full of "CAT" named things for those three euphoric years I spent at UVM.

The Tiburon loop: I've not done, but it is easily one of the most famous in Marin (the county north of San Francisco across the Golden Gate bridge). The entire trip from the mustering point in the Marina (in SF) and back was 45 miles. This would be my longest ride.

The day was glorious. Sunny, 65 degrees, lightly windy: it seemed crafted for spending the morning outside. At the mustering point--The Sport's Basement in the Presidio--about 50 or 60 riders meet to participate in the ride. The throng consisted of mostly gay men, many in their late middle years. I supposed they were in the generation when HIV/AIDS made it's horrible debut to the world here, in San Francisco. No more than 5 blocks from where I live, the Castro District of this city became gripped in fear as cases of a mysterious and sinister illness--appearing to affect only gay men and IV drug users --cropped up in partners and friends and lovers. These men at the training ride in their middle years almost certainly lost a friend or partner to this disease. This notion washed over my previous perception of them being curious, flamboyant participants. Enlightened by this notion, I came to appreciated their collective investment in HIV/AIDS fundraising and their dedication to completing this immense challenge; dedication composed of fear, grief, hope and, I'm sure, fond memories.

We rode out, all 60 of us, across the 0.9 mile expanse of the GG bridge and down a substantial hill that empties into Sausalito. The main strip of this rich, quaint town is peppered with outdoor fine dining establishment; there is the promenade with a beautiful panoramic view of the Bay north of San Francisco and the city itself. As I pivot my head 180 degrees (well not quite that much) I see, in order: Angel Island, the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz, the City washed white by the morning sun, the hazy Golden Gate Bridge. It's almost painful that I am the only one who can see this through my eyes. It is one of those views, and one of those moments, you want to share with everyone you know.

Having shed off the beauty and illustriousness of downtown Sausalito, we bore right and entered the parking lot of many-fabled Mike's Bikes, our first rest stop. I don't talk to anyone. I seem to be one of the only straight guys on this training ride. I am sincere and keep to myself, but if someone should say something in my direction I smile and laugh. I downed a banana, bought a vitamin water and cliff bar, and took my leave of Mike's bikes.



Truthfully, I did not need a rest. It was all down hill since the bridge. Besides, I wanted speed, to hear the almost inaudible whir of my thin tires over pavement. I slid on to the bike path, which runs along the water and connects Sausalito with Mill Valley.

Enlivened by my surroundings, I felt compeled to snap a few pictures. Braking, losing momentum, slowing, I unclipped and took a few pictures of the view in front and behind. Mount Tamalpias rose in front of me: rolling woody hills stacked to construct a verdant eminence of 4,000ft. clouds casting stripes over its face.














Camino Alto (a road) has an infamous hill on the loop that was not all that difficult. I was expecting much worse based on the laments of experienced riders, who wailed and beat their breast at hearing the impediment's name uttered. In fact, I find the Sausalito hill much more challenging; it is certainly a steeper, if not longer, climb. Camino offered beautiful views of the East Bay and the San Rafael/Richmond Bridge (the North Bay's only bridge). Alas, I couldn't stop. I was on a tight schedule, having to be back in the city by 1:30 for needle exchange at 2. In addition, I was terrified of being lost out here. I had not paid attention to the route instructions, so I needed to shamefully and stealthfully follow someone who did heed the directions.

About 3/4 the way up this climb I heard a loud crash and a body tumbling into brush. I should probably mention that on the climb up there was a small shoulder and a small curbstone separating the weary biker--possessing shitty balance because of exhaustion--from the type of steep hill so thick with trees and verger that the bottom is illusive. I whirled my around just in time to see a hapless biker vault the curb and summersault over: bike and body, all. He was lucky enough to come to rest before hitting a tree. I imagined a him performing one more turn and coming into painfully adhesive contact with the large unyielding truck, siding cartoon-like down its length. I dumped my bike and ran down steep soft ground to his aid. He was fine, albeit a bit shaken. Another gentlemen helped me hoist the bike back to the road. Feeling heroic and righteous I hopped back in the saddle and continued the climb.

Somewhere on the downside I met up with a guy named Mark who I had a small discussion with back at a mustering point over pumping up my tires. He was riding a mountain bike with thick nobby tires and doing really well. Riding a mountain bike on a 40 mile road ride is about 30% harder than on a road bike because of the gearing, tires and weight of the bike. Road bikes are superior in all aspects of road riding accept for steep climbs. Anyhow, we paired off and started another climb, which was mercifully interspersed with curvy descents. Mark and I talked over the wind and whir of tires about where we are from, what it is like there this time of year and other light topics of introductory conversation. He assumed I was gay with the comment. "There was a gay skiing event up in Tahoe. Did you go to that?". We were on the topic of other hobbies we enjoyed and I mentioned snowboarding as one of mine. I simply replied "No, I didn't." with out explanation. It did not bother me that me assumed I was gay. Odds are, on this ride, any guy you talked to was gay.

Mark and I descended into Tiburon amongst beautiful hill-perched houses looking over the shimmering silver bay. The route doubled back on itself at the tip of a small peninsula on which Tiburon is situated and we were again met with more ritzy and glorious views of Marin Houses seemingly stuck in the forest-covered hills. We dropped down into Tiburon proper near a ferry terminal. As with Sausalito, there was a promenade here too. We rode along a flat Main street and turned into Shark's Deli (local and non-touristed spot). I sat and chatted with Mark while enjoying a quick lunch.

Again, the time pressure I was under forced me to depart early. It was 11:45am and I had another 1.5 hours' in front of me. Two young ladies were leaving, so I tagged along with them.

The rest of the ride was basically getting back home. I did have another wonderful conversation with one of the young ladies(whose name I shamefully forgot) I followed. She, like Mark, was from the Bay Area; she had done the AIDS Life Cycle four times.

"So, let me get this straight. You've done all this training and raised at least $2,500 every year for four years?"

"Well, one year I was a volunteer and didn't ride. Other years I raised more than $2,500. It is slightly different every years, but the rewards are the same. Actually, it gets more rewarding every year." She corrected, then mused over the whir of our tires.

I broke off with her after about 5 miles and continued home at a quicker pace. It was getting late and I had to be at Needle Exchange.

As of March 1st, I'll be formally asking for support via e-mail, mail, phone and soforth. Thank you if you've already gave.

Thursday, Tahoe and Driving home

Thursday I did another ride to Ocean Beach. It has become a positive little addiction for me.

On Friday I got out of work at 12pm and took the BART (see photo) to the Ashby station in the East bay to meet up with my good friend/Needle Exchange enthusiast/Snow Board teacher/ Only Asian Friend/Ride to Tahoe. I've been a little more than lucky to meet this girl, as she is intelligent and interesting and carts my ass up to Tahoe for snow boarding trips. We call her Jules up in Tahoe, but she keeps signing her e-mails "Julie". Could that be a hint? Nah.

Why am I writing about a boarding trip in my ALC6 training blog? Well, I want to give everyone a sense that I am working hard toward becoming physically able to tackle this bike trip. The training does require a bit of crossover to other activities, like board sports (surfing, boarding, etc...). Boarding actually uses secondary leg muscles I need to strengthen for biking.

Anyway, I always have a grande ol' time when I venture up to South Lake Tahoe. Ally is there and, with great generosity, houses me and whomever I bring. She also hooks us up with some of the best food I've ever had, e.g. our dinner at the Chart House on Saturday night.

The snow in Tahoe was essentially ice. I fell three times on my right knee on Sunday. It soon thereafter became swollen. As Jules described it, "It looks like you have an extra knee cap." Gross. Lucky, it healed quickly and as not affected my cycling. The rain we are finally getting is, however.

We've have had some sort of mini drought out here. I heard on NPR's "Living on Earth" podcast that the snow pack in the Sierras is 57% lower than normal. That was certainly evident up on the Mountain. Saturday morning, as Ally, Jules and I were taking the Gondola up to 8,000ft, Ally remarked that she had not seen this little snow in all her three seasons there. Indeed, there was almost no snow at all. The ground was sandy and bare rock warmed in the sun.

After watching the super bowl Jules and I drove home. Well, Jules drove and I struggled to stay awake.

There is something surreal about the drive from Lake Tahoe to San Francisco. You start in the Tahoe basin, a giant bowl of 3 shades blue water guarded by mountains on all sides. The forests that skirt the mountains and blanket the basin have an unusual homogeneity, consisting of mostly Ponderosa Pine. At lake level it is about 5,500ft above sea level. CA route 50 makes its way through the Sierras that stand between the basin and the western foot hills. The pass brings you to 8,000ft before declining finally into the foot hills and Sacramento area. After shedding off the foot hills, you find the forest thickening and other tree species appear--the pines fall away behind you. Just outside of Sacramento, a mere hour and a half after leaving Tahoe, Palm trees pop up on the margins of highways and adorn the landscaping of box stores. These are the thoughts that run through my East-coast mind, "Palm trees don't belong so close to places where snow is. No. Does not compute." Seeing as I had not seen a palm tree until I was 22 during a road trip to Florida (22 hour drive) with the Top Cats, the proximately of the two here and now seemed monumentally unfair. Also, it brought home to me in a big way that I was, I am, in a different world.

The land flattens down near Sacramento in to a broad wet valley with rivers and marshes. Hitting the beginnings of the Bay Area, the hills timidly reappear as waves of grassy round mounts. They increase in amplitude and stripes of trees sprout from the narrow hollows between them. High voltage towers adorn their rounded tops--the only indication, at points, that you are entering a seriously populated area.

Then you across the Fairfield bridge in the North Bay and enter Contra Costa, and you are in the land of highways and humans. The 880, 780, 580, 280, 80, 101, huge ports and 6.7 million people. Palm trees everywhere and not a flake of snow. Total trip time: 3 hours.

We used to travel 3 hours to visit my grandparents in New Hampshire. Guess how many palm trees I saw. Zero. Guess what the temperature was: the same as Maine. So strange, so strange.

Ocean Beach: a routine.

Ocean beach and back 9.8 miles 45 mins avg speed 14.4 mph

I started doing this route the first day I received the Trek mountain bike my parents generously shipped from Vermont April last year. Since then I've made the trip through Golden Gate Park at least a couple dozen times. I've spend a solitary year here, both in number and in companionship. It is really nothing new, I've always had cycles, dry spells. And so I'd make the trip to get out of the city noise and into the cleansing "crash" of the vast lines of waves. Completely worth the hour/hour-and-a-half out of my life.

Tonight I left the house at 5:30 and it was already dusk. The roads that make up my route through Gold Gate park run the gamut from smooth and well maintained to "Maine-tained" my little adjective for shittly paved roads. Next time I do this route at night I will take my high-powered headlight. Road bikes are too fragile for that degree of jostling.

It is essentially all down hill to Ocean beach through the park. Toward the west-end of the park the street lights thin out to nothing. There is an interesting little gem too: a buffalo paddock. Honest-to-god buffalo grazing and living out their lives in the middle of a city. The nights I ride through the air is unfailingly rich with the scent of Eucalyptus trees. The air is cool most nights too, as this time of year it dips into the 40's.

My arrival at the ocean is always a heart-lifting experience. My failure to apply to medical school with gusto, my lack of money and money management skills, my romance dry spell, all that melts into the miles behind me to the East as I face the fading, red western sky. The waves at night take on an inverse image from the waves in the day, or at lease they seemed to then and there. The bases would reflect the street lights (Highway, a four-lane affair, is about 100 yards from the breakers), like a parabolic mirror. The caps, on the other hand, were dark.

On the horizon ships crawled slowly on the ends of the earth, their lights like orderly constellations. The moon is almost full and was very bright, otherwise I would have seen more actual constellations. But I was content to take this artificial substitute. To my right--north--the Marin Headlands shaped darker mounts against a darkening sky.

When I look around California, where ever I am, I try to envision it as it was before the finger of modern man scratched the landscape, leaving it bleeding with box stores and track homes. The grasslands between the Bay Area and Sacramento: where they always there? Where were the red wood forests? Muir Woods in Marin is the last vestige of a system of forests that ran along the coast. And what did San Francisco look like? Just a peninsula of rolling grassy hills, topped with dry grass 9 months out of the year. Fires and earthquakes burnt and shook the land; no one knew, on one cared.

From the East I am pulled back to my life on concrete. I don't mind. I've stopped wishing to share this with someone, stopped wishing I could experience it forever, stopped wanting days filled with doing only what I wish.

With a long exhale I don my helmet, situated myself in the saddle and start back East through the woody, fragrant park; I'm going home.

Lake Merced loop and Sunset Hills 22.2 miles 1.5 hrs