I have been keeping journals for over twenty years. It is humbling to read some of the old thoughts. They seem…well…wrong, stupid or worse!! But sometimes perhaps by pure chance you come upon a forgotten gem. This was the case. One day as is my custom I was riding bike along the San Tomas Creek bike path in Santa Clara and made my usual stop by Levi Stadium. The creek forms a pool and this is a serene spot to think, reflect and watch the waterfowl frolic in the waters. I usually write whatever comes to mind. It’s nothing earthshaking mind you but it becomes an eclectic sequence that describes one’s life. If not recorded, then like a puff of smoke it blends into the great beyond as though it never existed. Perhaps this is a primal instinct, a yearning for immortality. But…on this day I turned the page and there was a reminiscence of the picturesque and historical town of Truckee. It was a happy moment when one finds himself in contentment and in harmony with the world. Although written in June, 2012 I delighted in reading and reliving the experience.

     June 1, 2012

     The Truckee Hotel sports a fine second floor western style veranda overlooking Donner Pass Road, the town’s main street. It’s ‘Truckee Thursday’, the moniker given to their weekly summer fair. I sit in the sheltered corner lazily surveying the activity below. The proprietress slips a glass of cabernet on the table before me and says ‘enjoy’. She recognizes me from my many prior trips. So, the Thursday night market is in full swing bringing locals and tourists alike to this mountain retreat. Dining and drinking establishments are busy too. Folks with their dogs meander from one booth to another and greet friends along the way. I also see an awful lot of young girls with short, short, shorts. Not that I’m oogling over them, mind you! My oogling days are done, thank goodness!! But they still catch your eye, you see. Kind of like a Pavlovian reflex; remnants of the old days. But the shorts are very short and the legs are very long.

 

     There is a duette below playing country rock. I’m no judge of music but they sound pretty good to me. One plays a huge base and its tunes reverberate through the timbers of the second-floor balcony where I sit. Yes! I have a grand view from my perch. Entertained from below and looking out at the activity of folks filtering though the booths of Truckee’s main street I sip the dark velvety liquid and lean back on the Adirondack entering that wonderful semiconscious state of repose. The sun is still warm but gusts of cool wind come to the rescue at the right moment. 

     It seems that about every half hour a train comes through. There is a series of bellowing sounds so loud that they command your attention and for a moment you can’t hear and forget about the country rock duo below. Then there is a ding, ding, dinging tin sound above the subdued and gentle grind of the wheels. I counted the cars on one of the trains-seventy-six in all.

I turned to a guy who was watching with me and commented: “How can a couple of locomotives pull all those cars”. They were all flat

cars with sea containers stacked two high. “They replace a lot of trucks”, he commented and walked into the upper lobby of the hotel. Then another train clanged by. This one must be one hundred plus! It had an engine in the middle and two more in the rear. All the engines are a smutty yellow-orange with flowing American flags emblazoned diagonally at the center. Its thunder diminished into the west and its void was replaced by my duo now in full swing. My Adirondack was once again resonating the notes-especially that big base.

I’m rather mesmerized by it all-the shrills here and there from young female voices, laughter of all types…throaty ones and cackles and loud words and an occasional oasis of silence preceding the next round of  myrth. The sun is low and accents the tents with shadows to the east. Their peaks form two tidy straight lines on either side of the street.

 There was a tall slender girl with a white and brown dress who was selling hula hoops. No one was interested! The hoops were various colors with swirling stripes all around. She started to work one but had no rhythm. Her attempts were labored and soon gave up and began to talk to one of the guys at the next booth. 

Two police officers in green uniforms rode their mountain bikes slowly weaving through the crowd. They spoke to the hula hoop girl in passing.

I finally found a place for that chocolate milk shake earlier that afternoon. It was an old fashioned ice cream shop midway on main street. I had that yen since King’s Beach some fifteen miles back on my bicycle ride. I searched King’s Beach and Brockway too but no shake was to be had. I wanted to drink it before the arduous climb over Brockway Summit. The ascent was only 800 feet from lake level but after the other fifty miles and Donner Summit earlier in the day my body was beginning to scram ‘fuel’! In those occasions the fuel of choice is always a frosty chocolate shake. So, I climbed Brockway Summit milk shake-less and I might add with some effort.

Now my duo is belting out Roger Miller’s “King of the Road”. “Trailers for sale or rent…… My body gently and unconsciously sways as I take another sip the wine.

Oh! That lusty milk shake….I had sat on one of the planters at street level in front of the shop and sucked the thick cold elixir through the straw ever so slowly. It would have been better in Brockway, I thought, but it was plenty good here.

A group of little kids had hold of the lot of hula hoops. Some were rolling them while others were gyrating their hips effortlessly and magically the hoops defied gravity and clung to their tiny waists. The girl in the white and brown dress was paying them no attention. Just talking to the two guys.

Alas! My milk shake was gone. I felt like getting another but didn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A HEMINGWAYIAN FEAST

I chose this title because this group (me, Roy, Bruce and Tom) and this time in our lives reminded me of the story as told by Ernest Hemingway in The Sun Also Rises. It is my favorite novel and the characters in the story are flawed…as we all are and were in our own particular way. But…the redeeming quality of the book and our friendship was our ‘joie de vivre’. Roy and I always had this stark realization of our mortality and we wanted to cherish our days in the sun. And…we did!!! I found this manuscript after almost twenty years and all but yours truly are dead. I offer this as a lively account of one of our joyous adventures. Cheers!!

Luciano John Ercolini

Trip taken to Graeagle, Ca.

June 18-21, 2001

Lynksters: Luciano J. Ercolini, Roy DeGroot, Tom Gamble and Bruce Smith

Written: July 8, 2001

Edited: July 21, 2018

Finally Completed August 17, 2021

There is nothing more pleasing than to prepare for a golf trip, especially a golf trip to the Lake Tahoe area and the majestic Sierras. The bags come out. Smoothly, easily, with joy and without effort and each garment goes in its right place. The bags go by the front door. The car is washed as are the golf clubs and shoes. All is ready…with care and perfection.

At work every detail is dispatched. No loose ends are left to create problems. All is anticipated. Every precaution possible is taken to prevent that dreaded and intruding phone call once vacation.

The week before departure a phone call to Roy is made. What food to bring? Where will we stay? We’ll meet at Auburn at the biker bar? What courses will we play? It’s all for the pleasure of anticipation and to chat with a good friend about pleasurable events to come. What about Bruce…and Tom?? What booze shall we bring?

I have an escrow which will close sometime during this trip. For the past ten days I’ve tried to speed up Sarah at Bay Capital. She is to get the loan documents to escrow…but Sarah has only one speed. So…all my prodding comes to no avail. Roy sagely advises, ‘Louie, don’t cancel the trip. Work around the problem’. Roy is always right about these things and I heartily proceed to make arrangements to handle any details from the Sierras. Funny thing…..when I seem to have a vacation planned with these guys…I always seem to have a real estate deal of importance. Roy always tells me to plan a vacation every month….it’s a good business plan!!

Monday is departure day! I awaken light hearted and early. All the gear goes into the car. Along the way Pat will call and tell me that I left the olives from Consentino’s on the counter.

“I’ll eat them”, she says and laughs.

I drive to the office, review agenda for the next few days and arrange all details in order. I am satisfied!! I call Roy and tell him that I’m leaving Silicon Valley and will rendezvous with him and the group at noon at Auburn.

“See you at the bar in Auburn”, Roy replies and laughs. I return the phone to the car tray. At one time I didn’t like the idea of carrying a cell phone around. Now it has become a necessity. Concepts and technology change…and quickly…and you have to change with it lest you become a dinosaur.

I stop at American Savings in Sunnyvale for cash. Once on 237 East my mind is at ease. The golden and rolling hills dotted with oaks rise before me. We have traveled this same road numerous times for our golf trips to the Sierras. Each has been different. All have been memorable. Eddy Kimsey relished being with the guys, drinking red wine and savoring the Tahoe area. Billy Drabick did too!! God bless both of their souls. They were good friends. I think of them often.

Beyond Livermore the Altamont Pass and the windmills come into view. I always marvel at the oval ribbon ones. They seem a strange contraption but they turn and seem to work. Today they spin in unison. It’s a strange sight….all that motion and no noise…a bit eerie!!

Ron Owens is on KGO Radio. He makes good background on long trips. I breeze through Sacramento and am surprised that the air conditioner on my decade old Jeep Cherokee works. I notice all details and savor them as I anticipate great fun over the next week. I make good time and soon Auburn comes into view. It’s noon!!

Roy calls, “Where are you, Louie?”.

“Auburn”, I reply.

“Where are you?”

“You’re kidding”, Roy replies.  “We are just approaching Vacaville.”

“You guys must have stopped once or even twice for a pop along the way”, I sarcastically add.

And I laugh! And Roy laughs as the guys chortle in the background.

Cell phones make rendezvous easy. While waiting for the guys it was a good opportunity to explore Auburn. Took photos of the barn red firehouse with one of the first and restored volunteer fire engines. Looked closely at the miner statue so visible form the freeway. I strolled through the antique shops. I talked to one of the shop owners for a while. She had relocated to Auburn from the East Bay to be close to her children. She and her husband bought an old house which they just love. They sit, talk and watch passersby from their front porch. She was charming and reminded me of my mother. My phone rang.

‘We are at the bar’, Roy said.

I walked around the corner and there they were. We shook hand and hugged. Tom was in the bathroom so I had to go and surprise him in a moment of humor. It had been a while and it was a wonderful feeling to see old friends. I had been out of Sonoma County for some years. Tom and Roy were both in fine spirit and looked good. Bruce had suffered some malady and had deteriorated greatly since last I saw him. Later I was to discover details of his failing health.

Back on the freeway towards Tahoe Roy in his new SUV took off like the wind. I would see him several cars ahead and then no more. Graeagle is a small and remote town but we all had cell phones now so…I had no concerns about not being able to rendezvous. The names east of Auburn are magical to me since my bicycle trip several years back. Alta, Dutch Flat, Colfax, Cisco Grove, Nyack, Donner Summit. They are all so vivid…the old man who gave me a history tour of Dutch Flat…the proprietress of the bar/restaurant and hotel who took my pictures at Soda Springs. Then there was the iconic fat waitress with the lycra black pants and black head band at the Baxter Café/truck stop. They advertised as the ‘oldest truck stop in Western States. Lumber interest range high here! The menu sardonically boasted white spotted owl and bald eagle recipes. It was a hoot just to sit at the counter and take in all the local color. While finishing my breakfast a truck driver came back to the seat next to me. He was a bit upset. Without any encouragement he began his tale of woes.

‘That damn chick threw my keys in the woods. And….I gotta be in Sacramento by such and such. I picked her up some miles back and we got into a fight. Damn….’

I continued to eat my breakfast and sat quietly.

‘And…damn…today is my wife’s birthday too.’

‘Where you from’? I asked.

‘Salt Lake City’, he replied.

And he huffed and muttered and left to look for his keys. And…I used this opportunity to pay my bill and proceed on my bike adventure. But…it’s always amazed me as to how much stuff people tell you about their lives. Are they just blathering or asking for approval???

At Truckee I tried to raise Roy and the boys but the cell phone had no signal. It was a gorgeous day in the Sierras and the only blemish was a sizeable forest fire east of Truckee which bellowed columns of smoke all the way to the Reno area. Fortunately the smoke carried all in an easterly direction.   

North of Truckee on Highway 89 time seems to stand still. The few small towns on the way are just two roads intersecting. To the vacationers’ eye all looks quaint and rustic. It’s just old and dilapidated. I learned this particular discipline of the eye when I visited and later lived in Sonoma County. When I would go for weekends or golf jaunts for a few days all looked quaint and dreamy. However…when I moved up to the Santa Rosa area I began to see the seediness of all the structures. What had been quaint in a visit wasn’t so inviting when it was home. Just a perspective….and fortunately….Patricia and I were able to leave and start a new and exciting life in Silicon Valley.

The locals have a healthy indifference to vacationers as we were to discover. Stores, the few that exist, maintain hours to suit themselves. It’s a slow life style. Customer service is viewed differently. The high plains and meadows forested with pine and running streams are the lure of the area. Who cares about the lack of conveniences?

At Graeagle I stop at Graeagle Golf Course to check the parking lot for Roy’s Darth Phadermobile. His car is not visible. Cell phone is not working In this remote area. I drive through town and check out all the bars. No Roy car! To Plumas Pines Golf Course….no Roy car. I went to the source….the real estate office that booked our condos. The good lady was able to track down the guys. They had checked in and stowed their stuff. I went to the condo and found the garage door open. No guys though!! I stuck a note on the door and headed back into town. 

Sitting in front of the Knotty Pine Tavern on main street Graeagle Bruce waved me down.

“The boys are inside whooping it up’, he said.

I chatted with Bruce for a few minutes but could see that he was not feeling well and definitely not in a party mood.

Tom and Roy were in the bar engaged in a heavy conversation with the bartender.

“You guys trying to lose me or what”, I said.

No reply came but Roy in his usual generous style motioned to the bartender to pour me a wine.

“Louie”, Roy said, “sit down and have a nice wine. It’s good to see you.”

Tom gave me a hug and soon we were enmeshed in friendly banter as though no time had elapsed since I had moved out of Sonoma County. Roy pointed to the tourist map on the wall. That gave us a shot of energy and laughter. We recounted that night when Roy and I asked the bartender how to get to the Green Door. We used that artistic map as a guide. We traveled up Johnsonville Road three times and each of the first two times we came back to the tavern convinced that we had headed in the wrong direction. Finally….we travelled all the way to the end of the road and found the restaurant. Of course….with each return to the Knotty Pine Tavern Roy and I had a drink. Perhaps that explained our failure to navigate properly. There are few things in life as joyful as good friends renewing their bond of togetherness.

We stowed the food and baggage at the condo situated by the ninth hole of Plumas Pines Golf Course. It’s a peaceful and calming setting on the deck overlooking clear ponds with lots of cattails and wetland vegetation and mountains rising sharply beyond. Occasionally a golf group would take the tee.  It was very easy to sit and look and absorb the entire vista. Blackbirds with bright red markings on the wing would fly close to the water and come to rest on the cattails. Everyone chose a room and I lucked out. My room was the master suite upstairs with my own bathroom. The accommodations were perfect.

It was almost six when we arrived at Graeagle Meadows Golf Course. The lady at the pro shop insisted that no carts were to go out after 6pm. Fortunately we had Tom. He calmly and suavely explained to her something or other and when the schmoozing was done we proceeded to the first hole with our carts loaded and ready to go. It was a short course with mostly par threes and we only played nine holes. We were just loosening up before dinner.

This time we found the Green Door Restaurant immediately. She had said that we needed reservations but when we arrived the place was empty. We sat, ordered and paid. It was the end of their season and wanted to close so we complied gracefully and left as we were tired.

I awoke early the next day. There is something pure about rising at first light in the high Sierras-clean, clear, bright, fresh and green with nary a sound. The scenery is crisp. I began to cook bacon and soon the whole condo filled with its redolence. Hot croissants, coffee, toast, jam and scrambled eggs soon followed. By now everyone was up. Tom and Bruce were chatting out on the deck while Roy was watching the stock market stuff. At breakfast all had a voice in establishing the bets for the day. We were to play skins over the two day period.

The golf courses in Plumas County rate close to the top in the world of golf-dom. Perhaps they do not possess the majestic scenery of an Edgewood or Incline Village around Lake Tahoe. Nor are they as spectacular as those on the historic Monterey Peninsula. They do possess natural beauty-grand vistas of the rugged mountains, meandering streams with crystal waters, Ponderosa pines. Al this and golf too!!!

We warmed up at the Plumas Pines driving range. This is the time for some seriousness. Since none of us have command over our swing the first few minutes on the practice range is a harbinger for the day’s golf. Before a ball is struck there is the hope and expectation of perfection; after a few swings we accept reality. We all establish our rhythm-first the irons, driver and some puts. We gathered on the elevated first tee with the fairways below us in the warmth of the morning sun with spirits high anticipating great golf and friendly banter.

With the crack of the first drive the game was on. Concentration and strategies were at play. Out of bounds and formerly picturesque waters now were our doom. The stunning scenery of the Feather River area faded to the shots at hand. “Nice Shot, Roy! Good put, Tom” Bruce sinks another long one. Laughter, cajoling and some sarcasm abounds. I hear Bruce to my chagrin; “What kept that out’ as my put is ridiculously wide and long. But it’s all in the envelope of fun and friendship and the tally of the scorecard reveals the usual scores.

It was the double vodka that did it. Roy, somewhat behind on the bet, stopped at the turn and bought double drinks for all of us. Sneaky devil…..he came up with the equalizer. The vodka was active. Back at the condo Bruce wanted to rest but the rest of us felt a yearning for the Mohawk Tavern.

It’s a log cabin painted barn red situated on a blind curve on Johnsonville Road. Once inside the darkness obscures all. Perhaps done for a good reason! One must navigate the floor with care. I’m sure that the regulars don’t notice; they know the low spots. We sat at one of the tables; the bar was full even though it was the early afternoon. Some of the patrons had teeth; most the guys wore jeans and t shirts. The bartender served us a round and brought dice. We stayed long enough to compile the scores and settle bets but then Tom suggested the pool bar at the River Pines Resort.

On our first trips we had rented a cabin near the pool area. We tried to book here on this trip but alas it was full. It’s a nice motel with rustic log cabins, spacious grounds and a pool with outdoor bar and recreation area-ideal for families on vacation with kids free to safely roam the grounds, swim and play ping pong. It’s a beautiful and wholesome scene. So…..in we come and take seats around the corner of the bar. Tom is already schmoozing with the bartender. No one I’m sure made references to ‘lap dancing’ or ‘calling Cindy’ or such. I’m sure??? Some kids were playing ping pong and Roy made reference when last we were her and our attempt at the game. When the kids were done Roy and I took a turn at the table. Simple, playful afternoons are most fun and memorable. A couple of the kids challenged us to a game and Roy and I accepted. Tom was leaning forward at the bar still talking to the bartender. I pointed to the shuffleboard table in the corner and Roy laughed as he remembered the Christmas lunch I had organized from Lorenzo’s Restaurant. About ten of us (Jim Maloney, Roy, me, Mike Rocchi, Reed King, Bruce, et al) lunched at Catelli’s in Geyserville. Afterwards we drove to Burce’s new bar and ended up playing shuffleboard with a mother and daughter……about 60 & 80 years old. The mother was semi blind and Reed King and I lost about $100 to them. Hmmm….maybe we were blind too??? Tom was still sitting at the bar and seriously talking to the bartender.

As Roy and I played shuffleboard Tom rose from the bar, steadied himself, walked to the ping pong table and had a game with one of the kids. The vodka was at play: Some of the shots he fanned by a foot or more. The shuffleboard was unique; it had a crest on one end sloping to either side. We had to get used to it but the kids already knew.

Tom sauntered over and began to render ‘play by play’. Next I see Roy helping him remove his shirt, hat and sunglasses. Then…..a hop, a slight stumble over the two steps and a lurch over the side of the pool. Tom did a fine belly flop then disappeared with the rest in the pool. There was a suspenseful stillness as we all watched. When last we saw his tennis shoes disappear in the water hearty laughter resounded.

Roy was chuckling!

“Atta boy, Tom! Nice form!”

After a hearty nap Tom barbequed the filets and Roy and I put together the rest of the dinner. We feasted on shrimp cocktails, Caesar salad, sautéed prawns, filets, roasted potatoes and string beans. There is nothing better than a quality dinner prepared at home after a full day of fun. Needless to say we all slept soundly that evening.

The next day after breakfast we drove to White Hawk Golf Course, the premier course of the area. It was another twenty four karat gold day spent in the splendor of the high Sierras sunshine, strolling through a fine course and basking in the warmth of friendship. Truly a quality moment of life!

After golf we searched in vain for lotto tickets. We were more successful with our search for cigarettes. Stores in this remote area close early or when they want.  We drove up Gold Mountain to survey a new course in the area, Nakoma the Dragon situated on a mountain top miles from nowhere, signs of future homes are apparent and of course first in priority is the golf course and club house. A stunning setting!! On the crest of a mountain in Indian and oriental motif the club house and pro shop command fine natural vistas. The golf course meanders on the slopes below. God knows what devilish shots await us. The interior is rustic elegance. The bar is small, warm and friendly. To the rear is a courtyard where we sat and chatted enjoying the natural beauty of the setting.

We ate at the restaurant by the pool bar that evening. Preparations for the next day were done. I was to leave early and they at their leisure.

When I awoke early Roy was up and cleaning the kitchen. When Tom rose I had completed loading my car. We shook hands warmly and vowed to do it again soon.

“The Dragon’, I said. “Say good-by to Bruce for me.”

As I left Graeagle I noted that my gas tank was empty. The next little town was 19 miles away. I think there was a gas station there. If I run out of gas the boys will pick me up.

Along old US 40 running parallel to US 80 is one of my favorite roadhouses, the Rainbow Lodge. (In subsequent years I have bicycled this road from Truckee and is truly a halcyon world for those who have a passion for biking.) The setting and architecture are reminiscent of the Alps. The dining room is rustic of stone with ceiling of polished wood and iron décor. I enjoyed a robust breakfast of pancakes, bacon and their natural spring water. As I left I bought a round of bloody maries for the boys whom I knew would stop later.

Did you know that if you are bored…you are boring. Wherever you happen to find yourself there are layers to be uncovered if only you have the imagination, the inquisitiveness and the curiosity to find the stories buried in these layers. Riding through San Francisco, for example. The names trumpet its colorful history. Maiden Lane…Van Ness…Lombard…Ortega…Noriega and just across the Golden Gate Bridge there is Sausalito with redolence of its onetime colorful mayor…Madam Sally Stanford and the long gone beatnik colony. Golden Gate Bridge finished in 1937 and on that historical day my mother along with the citizenry of San Francisco walked across the golden gate. Some time ago I met friends and played golf at Lincoln Golf Course just south of the bridge. When we came to the seventeenth hole we carefully surveyed the coast line for the heralded view of the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s reputed to be an iconic view and spot. But, alas, the thick fog shrouded the bridge from view. Sir Francis Drake centuries before while trying to find the golden gate had the same trouble and ended up in Drake’s Bay near Point Reyes. I thought that to be cool! Each time I make that drive my mind is fully engaged with the names and history of the place. But… it’s not just San Francisco…it’s all places. Some with less spectacular stories, true, but all have the  unique story to tell.

One Sunday morning I was riding my bicycle along old US 395 from Reno to Carson City. If you have ever been you must agree that it’s a unique setting with expansive views, air of unbridled clarity, muted desert colors with the contrasting ruggedness of the Sierras to the west and Washoe Lake blending gently and barely visible. The new Martin Luther King Freeway now services the two cities and what a wonderful thoroughfare it is. Reputed to be the most expensive freeway per mile ever built. There are geothermal resources along the way which are entwined below the surface of the road to control the extreme and hazardous conditions of winter. The centerpiece is the Galena Creek Bridge which joins two promontories over the creek with the nation’s largest cathedral arch. Like the Bixby Bridge in Big Sur and the Rainbow Bridge at Donner Summit the art deco structure blends grace and elegance with functionality. It’s a gem viewed from many vantage points in Pleasant Valley. Just below is a chocolate factory..yep in the middle of nowhere with funky props to garner tourist attention. The taxicab driver who hauled me and my broken bike back to Reno told me all details….some accurate and some embellished I would surmise. But…he was a happy camper as the $100 fare began his financially successful shift.

So…my route was unceremoniously halted at the gates of Carson City. A chunk of metal holding one of the spokes broke and rendered my steed a bit lame. Instead of Virginia City and the Bucket of Blood Saloon I had to search for a bicycle shop. How hard could that be?? After all Carson City is the capital of Nevada. It seems that our level of expectation coming from Silicon Valley is a bit beyond limits…even for the capital of Nevada. All bicycle shops are closed on Sundays. No trains or busses either. Hmmmm!  So, there I was riding with a wobbly front wheel and no practical way back to Reno and a fine dinner with my pal, Roy and friends. A time out is in order in these situations. In my zig-zags about town I noticed an establishment that spoke to me. Firkin & Fox with outside seating. Parked my bike next to my table and had good beer and deep fried calamari. And….a jolly conversation with the waitress and a couple who commiserated with me about my bike problems. And…we all laughed. This was my type of place. One of the signs by the front door said, ‘Try our burgers…they’re Firkin good!’ Now I have a fine picture in my mind about Carson City. Perhaps one should follow the advice of Melina Merkouri’s film, Never On Sunday!

On this jaunt to the Reno, Carson Valley, Truckee area I came with specific things to see. Sure there was the golf and fun times with the guys but the added attraction for me was the days at the end staying at the historic Truckee  Hotel on Donner Pass Road or main street in Truckee. It’s a marvelous adventure for one who appreciates a living anachronism of our country’s history of the lumber trade, building of the railroads, gold and silver mining and the settling of the West. It’s all layered in this little town. It’s a living museum. And…this time  I wanted to visit the famous Tunnel #6 overlooking Donner Lake, the Petroglyphs at the summit and the origin of the Truckee River in Tahoe City. From the seat of my bicycle, of course!

 Truckee has figured out how to maximize its tourist revenues. And…why not?! The town has a lot to offer and no one should complain. The parking…there used to be five spaces available across the street from the Truckee Hotel by the railroad tracks which were clandestinely free to hotel guests. But…alas…the hotel clerk informed me that they were gone. So, it was hourly parking with quarters and credit cards. Hmmmm! That rubbed me the wrong way. I don’t mind paying $10 for a mediocre glass of wine at the Bar America across the street…but paying for parking?! So, a bit of walk down main street as I normally do. Window shopping and people watching and absorbing the ambiance. I spotted a stretch of land across the street from the White House, an antique Victorian structure, that has housed restaurants and real estate offices and B & B’s over the years and an enterprise that I once considered and almost made an offer on. There were a lot of cars parked adjacent to the railroad tracks and there were no meters of parking signs. That was it….my oasis to free parking. Now I felt shrewd and could go on freely and spend the ten dollars at will on mediocre glasses of wine for the duration.

While golfing in Reno on our many trips over the years we have stayed at fine hotels, fancy hotels with all amenities. Hotels like The Peppermill, The Atlantis, The Grand Sierra and even the newly built hotel at Boomtown. They are comfortable, enjoyable and delightful to rest, play and entertain yourself. But…the Truckee Hotel is a refreshing change to these oases of pleasure. My room was European style; that is, sink in room only and the rest of bathroom facilities down the hall. But…let me tell you for one who rides bike all day and uses the room for its basic purpose…this room at $59 was economical and functional. Did I say clean. Yes, clean! Each morning I would see a crew of maids cleaning the floors and walls of the communal showers and bathrooms while going down to the complimentary continental breakfast served in perhaps what  is the most western, iconic parlor. So, that’s where my day began…in front of the large screen television updating myself on the events of the market about the world and breakfasting on yogurts, bagels, coffee and juice. The weather for the morning was pleasant and sunny but caught a note on TV about a small craft advisory due to gusty winds. I gazed out the window and all looked placid, sunny and muted. A seemingly perfect day to tackle the Donner Summit and those three items of interest.

This is my third trek over old US 40 by way of Donner Lake and up to Donner Pass at 7200 feet plus in altitude. I sported the same enthusiasm that was present on the other rides. It’s a magical journey with nothing but items of interest along the way. Surmounted by the exquisiteness of nature. To sit at the end of a dock a few feet above the ripples of crystal clear alpine waters rendering visible the granite laden bottom. It’s a feeling of being close to and in accord with nature. To stop, look and appreciate. The wind stirring the surface and creating lapping sounds against the dock’s timbers. The sheer granite ledges of the sierras rising majestically to the sky and the straight horizontal lines of the railroad tucked midway up. And…I followed my route up to that aesthetic structure, the Rainbow Bridge. Perhaps the little old man that ran the historical society shop beyond the summit would be there to sell me another of his US 40 t shirts.

I began to climb, slowly and rhythmically. I noted immediately that the incline seemed to require more effort than I remembered. Hmmm, I thought, could it be that extra twenty pounds that I’m carrying. Professional bicycle racing industry spend thousands of dollars getting those competitive bikes a few pounds lighter and I…well…I had added twenty or twenty five pounds to my girth. And…now I noted the difference. But the scenery was exquisite and there were refreshing gusts of wind which created a feeling of being one with the elements. I had to stop several times along the way to get my heart rate down but eventually I made it. The last mile was met with gusts of 50mph wind which made forward progress a matter of inches at a time. Now I remembered the small craft advisory of the morning weather report and garnered first hand its meaning. I would use care for the rest of the day, especially going down the grade, not be fall prey to these gusts. I remembered the song from the 60’s, Dust in the Wind!!!

The route winds through solid granite. Blocks of which loom bigger than life forming insurmountable faces, crevices and remote ledges. Even the most obtuse must be impressed with the grandeur of the handiwork. Thickets of underbrush cling to sources of water running down the slopes. A Jeffery or Western Pine rises from a shelf and one wonders how can the roots find adequate support or nutrition. Its trunk is gnarly and weathered and battle worn but there it stands with plumes of greenery as though heralding to the world the story of its magnificent struggle and victory of the tenacity of life over the elements.  Musical geniuses such as Mozart or Bach or Verdi might express such drama in thunderous musical terms. At the summit sheltered from the elements between granite outcroppings is a sublime micro-garden of nature with flowers and delicate plants. From another vantage point I see pools of alpine water resting in hollows of granite. Each is adorned with its oasis of greenery. I sit on a ledge and absorb all this natural drama and feel fortunate to be able to slow my consciousness and mark this moment in my existence.

 

Tunnel #6

For a bicycle rider the conquest of notable summits is always an exhilarating moment. Donner Summit offers all that and much more. This narrow slit in granite was the gateway over the challenging Sierras for many people. The Paiutes, the Shoshone, the Washoe Indians traveling from the Carson and Reno Valleys to California’s Central Valley to trade with local tribes. Early California settlers seeking a new life out west. The gold seekers rushing to the goldfields to make their fortunes. The railroad folks trying to do the impossible and link this great nation with rail. Early motorists who sported their horseless carriages over the summit to vacation in the Tahoe basin. And…then there are crazy bike riders, like me, who have discovered the thrill of challenging the mountains up close and personal to reveal their secrets of beauty, nature and history.

At one time we skied. Mostly around Incline Village and North Shore but Heavenly and Kirkwood to the south too. But…I sense that we missed the best. At the summit are Donner Ski Ranch and Sugarbowl. D0nner is privately owned and rustic in nature. Sugarbowl was the original. In the thirties it drew the San Francisco crowd from the Ferry building for weekend skiing on a jaunt known as the ‘Snowball Express’. The first chair lifts and ‘magic carpets’ found home here. This program in the thirties was so popular that Central Pacific had to park extra train cars in Truckee to accommodate skiers. And…Charlie Chaplain filmed ‘Gold Rush’ here and stayed at the River Hotel in Truckee by the Truckee River. My mind is rich with these thoughts as I ride slowly beyond the summit toward my first stop on Sugar Bowl Road and the railroad tracks.

  This is the view of the famous Tunnel #6 as seen from the bridge on Sugar Bowl Road. I am stunned at the courage that it must have taken to attempt to penetrate this sheer granite. Just look…we’re talking solid granite.

It was the Chinese. Living by the tunnel and working ungodly hours in all weather conditions. Teams of three were formed with one holding a long chisel and the other two alternately swinging an eighteen pound hammer. It was know as ‘bam, bam, quarter turn’. The goal was to chisel a two inch wide hole, stuff it with black powder, ignite it, run for your life and then come back amidst smoke and dust and remove the debris. And…do it all over again. They began the tunnel at both ends but the progress was painstakingly slow…only a few inches a day.

Eventually the black powder was replaced with nitroglycerin which was more powerful. But….much more unstable. Shipments would find their way around the Horn and through San Francisco. On one occasion a leaking unmarked crate destined for the Sierras was left at the Wells Fargo office near California and Kearny Streets with people wondering what the leaking black substance might be. Well…as bad luck would have it, the unstable substance exploded destroying blocks and killing untold number of folks. Subsequently such shipments were forbidden. And…the resourceful railroad engineers found an English scientist who was knowledgeable and willing to ship the inert ingredients to the site and make the unstable nitroglycerin there. 

To speed the pace of construction further a shaft was excavated midway the 1650ft tunnel resulting in four crews working towards each other. When they eventually met they were only off by a few inches. Tunnel Number Six was completed in 1867 and continued to provide service for over a century. The last train chugged through the tunnel in 1993.

Petroglyphs

All these icons of the past, the earmarks of history, are a connection with our ancestors. A piece of humanity which traversed this space in a prior time. The same footsteps, the same vistas….perhaps the same thoughts! The shivering Chinese huddled over a fire outside their tents making a rice dish before they resumed their endless day of work in howling wind and frigid snow conditions. Have you ever laid your hand on frozen granite?? Just try it to share the humanity. Or…the native Indians making the trek to the central valley to trade. They saw the same peaks, snow covered. Or as they looked back they would see the grand view of Donner Lake. What were their thoughts? Whatever deity they recognized they must have given some recognition and gratitude for its beauty. Maybe those oases with pools of alpine virgin water amidst lush greenery was a resting place after the demanding climb and the Shoshone, or Paiute or Washoe parties would drink from the same pools and have a meal. And…feel lucky to be alive in such beauty and pristine environment. Look down from the summit and get a glimpse of a bicycle rider hunched over his bike struggling to conquer the summit. He realized that he is a traveler of time on a communal journey of his ancestors. It’s a bond in humanity.

So, a little rest on the gentle granite incline with these wonderful petroglyphs all about me.

 Were they leaving a message or just doodling as they rested? Kilroy was here?

And a placard situated on the roadside for the benefit of the tourists. These placards constitute a colorful tutorial along old US 40 from Cisco Grove to Soda Springs into Donner area and Truckee. From here the my bike trek continues down Donner Pass along South Shore of Donner Lake and south along Highway 89 to Tahoe City. This route along the shores of the Truckee River I’ve covered on other accounts listed under ‘Truckee, Tahoe, Reno Area’.

 

 Birth of the Truckee River

Causeway into the dam.

Clarity of Tahoe water.

Ducks and Geese looking for breakfast.

The dam controlling the headwaters of the lake and the flow into the Truckee River. The course of the river flows north by ski resorts of Alpine Meadows and Squaw Valley by Donner Lake and City of Truckee to Reno and its final destination…Pyramid Lake. Total route is about 120 miles.

Just across from the dam is a Washoe Indian Museum which I’ve yet to visit. Next time! 

And a surprise!!!

Each trip, it seems, some mishap occurs which yields an unexpected series of twists and turns and present a pleasant and unexpected surprise. On this adventure the last few miles of the bike path into Tahoe City was under repair….so, I had to truncate my journey and return to Truckee at bit early. Just across the river on River Street I proceeded east and came onto the newly built City of Truckee Bike Path . It meanders along the shore of the river for some miles terminating on a rise yielding a majestic view of the Truckee Basin. Along the path are many placards highlighting the region’s past. The native people, the vegetation, the fish, flowers, ecological formations, watershed information…etc., etc.. It was a ride through a natural museum all the while looking on the scenery of the Truckee River. I was delighted. We all complain about governments…but on this occasion the City of Truckee produced a magnificent facility for tourists and citizens alike. City of Truckee…’TI SALUTO!!’

 

 

Auguri

The Cycling Tuscan

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After a long day of bike riding there is great satisfaction to sit back, let the body go limp and reflect…yes, reflect on all the beautiful vistas and wonderful feelings that are now part of the kaleidoscope of your mind. So, I ordered a glass of Malbec from Argentina and slowly sipped and savored the rich, dark liquid as my head swayed to Frankie’s tune:

“What has a man, what has he got

If not himself , then he has not

To say the words, he truly feels

Ans…not the words of one who kneels…..”

Ahhh, I thought, Frankie, what a tremendous saloon singer. I loved and still love his tunes. But…he was such an asshole in many ways.

The waiter came again to check on me. I looked up from my thoughts and ordered the same dinner as I had enjoyed on my last visit some months ago. A pizza Margherita and a Caesar Salad. That’s it…plain and simple, I said as I handed back the menu and he rushed off to a couple who had just sat at the small table next to me. I flashed a moment on my dinner order. Yes….simplicity. What  an expression of beauty. Simplicity is beauty. Simple dishes done with directness and care. No superfluous hubbub and a mixture of stuff all over the plate, no complex sauces or rich and exotic flavors to confuse the palate. No sir. Not for me. Just one plate for each item done to perfection. The pizza crust, thin and caramelized; splotches of tomatoes and mozzarella dotted with fresh basil leaves. It was art on a plate. Simplicity and beauty. The Caesar Salad of equal beauty with a presentation of the house’s own originality.

I looked at both dishes as they were presented. Just to absorb the beauty of the simplicity. And…swirled some Malbec just to savor the moment.

“The record shows, I took the blows

And….did it my way.”

Well, Frankie, I did it my way too. As measured by the standards of society I’m not so successful as you are…but I sure love those words. That’s why I’ve committed them to memory. And… there is no feeling in this entire world like a man who can take it or or leave it according to the whims of the little drummer within. And… one more thing, Frankie….the asshole business…well, I guess everyone is an asshole in their own way. ‘Amico, ti saluto’, as I tip the glass for a libation into cyberspace.

This had been the summer of my sixty-fifth year. A wonderful summer by all measure. It had been highlighted with two trips to the Sierras. Each trip had the same profile-golf with the guys for the first few days and then bicycle riding into areas never before traveled. Each of those sojourns had ended in Truckee with rides to Donner Summit and points beyond. As I began to eat the crisp romaine lettuce and croutons I felt fortunate to be able to have uncovered layers to these areas which I had known all my life but the true character and beauty was reserved till last. It was the bicycle riding and the investigation into history that revealed all the wonders of this area and makes it alive. Wow, what a place. Just think! It’s all here just for the taking. How can one guy be so lucky as to be able to pluck these gems from history and combine them with his bicycle passion, the natural beauty of the Sierras and the vistas…and…it’s all free. It was Thoreau who said something about developing interests which cost nothing. It goes back to independence and self- reliance. The capacity to dine alone and savor the moment….to ride miles on a bike and be fully engaged with your thoughts…to appreciate all those who traveled the same road and most of all to appreciate the moment. You know…the moment is all that we have. Something about being a spectator versus a participant. A spectator watches others being a hero in their lives; a participant is a hero in his own life.

Each visit began with an early check in at the newly remodeled Truckee Hotel. This hotel is steeped with history…if only the timbers could. talk. It was a stagecoach stop during the pre-rail days. A ride to the resorts at Tahoe City would take two and a half hours along the present route of highway 89. Then the transcontinental railroad came displacing stagecoaches and wagon roads. It was a hotel for tourists and travelers across the Sierras. It was the first hotel to have steam heat. And it’s advertising is emblazoned on rock surface somewhere along old US-40 by Donner Summit. I’ve yet to hunt it down.

The nice folks at the hotel let me check in early in the morning. With no time wasted I would have my car parked at the free spaces by the rails and be on my way on my new Kestrel carbon fiber bicycle.  The weather was spectacular. I rode along the south edge of town on River Street by the rushing white waters of the Truckee River. Off of main street Truckee still shows its rustic under-belly. And…I just love it. It’s real. The businesses make do with the old architecture and adapt it to the business of the day.

The road empties onto Highway 89 and I follow it north to Donner Pass Road towards Donner lake. There is an overpass on Highway 80. There I must stop to take photos and just to survey the scene. The spot commands broad views of the entire valley. Well….can’t call it a valley…it’s at 7200 feet in altitude. Perhaps a high plain. There are the snow capped Sierras all around and the vastness with mountain air clarity and soft morning light. An unusual feeling erupts… a feeling that confirms the existence of the spectacular and the aesthetic. It’s extraordinary. To be such an insignificant speck and to survey and appreciate such a scene. There are a couple of others which emote such feeling-Emigrant Pass before Cisco Grove on Highway 80 and the Carson Valley from a rise on Double R Ranch Road just south of Reno. There are the railroads, the Jeffery Pines, Donner Pass to the West, the continuous traffic on 80’s road surface below and sleepy Truckee behind. To not appreciate and admire is not to be alive.

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED: Donner Lake & Old US-40

Beyond the pines along the old route of US-40 lies  a gem which is  overlooked by most who travel this region. It’s Donner Lake, a gem of an alpine lake nestled in the recesses at the foot of Donner Pass. While the masses rush off to Tahoe or Reno this alpine siren lies quietly and remotely hidden giving only an occasional glimpse from vantage points of US-80. The road travels the waters’ edge as I enter a world of serenity and placid surface waters. There are boaters, teens diving from piers, paddle boarders and groups fishing from shore. There is no rush here; I enter an oasis of calm. And…as I raise my gaze I note Donner Pass and Rainbow Bridge at the summit looming over all this serenity.

AND NOW….THE CLIMB TO THE TOP!

 Any damn fool can go down hill! But the climb demands all those elements of achievement. You know…those old fashioned qualities like…discipline, fortitude, perseverance…etc. And…at the summit of each climb there is the exhilaration and feeling of achievement not to mention the grand vista…and a grand vista well deserved. So, that’s what I tell my friends when they ask, ‘why do you do it’? And… of course, they smile and kind of shake their heads as though recognizing a like-able whackadoo! But…my fellow bicycle riders know the thrill of looking over your shoulder and seeing a mountain range blue against the setting sun and a content grin erupts on our faces. Yep! we came that way, on our own power and now we are in command of that scenery. It’s an expression of independence and self reliance. rn

If there is pain in this climb it is obfuscated by the sheer beauty of the area and the many layers of history of those whose footsteps marked this road. There are Washoe Indians, the fur trappers and adventurers, the Canistoga Wagon settlers, the railroad guys, the builders of transcontinental roads, the early motorists, and early year round residents who came to settle and stay and call it home.

I peddle gently and look all about. My sight is transfixed to the summit and the art deco bridge spanning the granite ledges. It is reminiscent  of the the Bixby Bridge on Highway-1 just south of Monterey. Well. this is the Donner Summit Memorial Bridge but also known as the Rainbow Bridge. Built in 1927 as part of the US 40 transcontinental route from the east to west coast.

The bridge had challenges of engineering and cost over-runs. Initially budgeted at $27,000 which turned to a $36,000 sum when all was said and done and the contractor made a walloping profit of $1,600. But the bridge turned out to be a piece of art as it negotiated changes in elevation and direction. And…all done in a dramatically aesthetic way.

And…a fine view of Rainbow Bridge from a Donner Summit vantage point…overlooking its successor, US 80. Ah, yes! US 80, more efficient, speedier, easier to negotiate…but less exciting, less interesting and definitely less beautiful. If in the area take an extra half hour and treat yourself to a ride into yesteryear. Old US 40 from Soda Springs to Truckee. Experience the Sierras as they were in the old days. It will enrichen your experience!!!

The Donner Summit

Everyone knows about the infamous Donner Party…but did you know about the Indians. The Paiutes, The Shoshone and the Washoe Indians used this ancient pass for centuries to trade their wares with the populations of the Sacaramento Valley. Just think…way before California and the settlers and America this pass was used by the Indians. At various points at the summit petroglyphs can be seen. Ancient markings of our ancestral travelers chiseled on stone. They probably had the same reaction to this spot as we do today. ‘Wow! How beautiful.’

 By the shores of the Truckee River west of Reno I happened upon this fine tribute to the local Indian tribes. This is truly the joy of travel….from the seat of a bicycle to discover these gems of interest and to tie them into the general history of the region. So, these Indians would have traveled the same route I rode…along the shores of the Truckee River following the present route of US 80 into Truckee by Donner Lake and up to the pass. How very cool is that???

And the joy and satisfaction of conquering another summit!

Looking south from the summit the railroad line is visible against the granite backdrop. This perhaps is the finest tribute to the men who suffered, sacrificed and endured incredible hardships to build this great piece of ‘Americana’…conventional wisdom of the time said that it could not be done. But…Theodore Dehone Judah along with Dr. Strong from Dutch Flat lead the way. And…the Chinese…worked incredible hours, in extreme weather conditions and unimaginable danger. They inched their way through the impenetrable granite of the Sierras with picks, hammers and chisels and black powder and  nitroglycerin. It was known as ‘Bam, Bam, Quarter Turn! A team of three with one holding the chisel and the other two wielding an eighteen pound sledge hammer. Tunnel # 6 is a tribute to the Chinese. Progress was two inches a day…till, they began to work from both sides and dug a shaft form the center and worked out. When eventually they met…the tunnels were only a few inches out. A total length through solid granite  of 1659 feet. The tunnel is no longer used and can be viewd by interested visitors. When next I’m there…I’ll be sure to savor every inch.

Back at Moody’s Bistro the music was from a local group filtering in from the bar dining area. They seem to have many such groups playing in locations throughout town. One day I had sat on the second floor balcony looking out onto main street and listened to a duo below by the outdoor seating playing ‘King of the Road’. And…the couple seated next to me…well, now we were in a lively conversation ab0ut, of all things, our mutual high school. The gentleman and I had both attended Marin Catholic in Marin County a few years apart. We shared old memories of our old campus and teachers we had known. These are the pleasant coincidences of travel. And…if I can digress for a moment about such coincidences…Gstaad in the Swiss Alps! My daughter Gina and I were on one of our road trips in the summer of the 80’s from Frankfurt to Tuscany for a visit with our family. We treated ourselves to a fancy hotel in the mountains. While Gina was taking a nap I went for a massage in their spa. The masseuse, during our conversation, tells me that a few weeks before had attended a fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Leaning Tower Restaurant in South San Francisco….the restaurant I owned at the time. I always marvel at the coincidences of life when you ‘put yourself about’.

From Donner Summit my adventure continues in two directions: out along US-40 by Lake Van Norden, Cisco Grove and The Rainbow Lodge and back to the Truckee Hotel; and earlier in June…the other route to the South Shore of Donner Lake along Highway 89 along the Truckee River to Tahoe City along North Shore Lake Tahoe, Brockway and back over the summit to the Truckee Hotel.

Old US-40 Summit to Cisco Grove

A most historic spot! Donner Summit. Earmarked by the Donner Summit Historical Society.

The museum consists of 34 historical placards from the Nyack exit off of US-80 to the summit. Within the building above are many interesting photos and artifacts of the area. These items of interest are sponsored by local businesses trying to make this piece of California history economically viable and alive.

The ‘snowball express’ 1937!! Ski enthusiasts could begin their adventure at the Ferry Building in San Francisco in the early evening. Ride overnight on  a comfortable train with dining cars and sleeping berths available and awaken in the morning at Norden Station just a few minutes away from Sugarbowl for a day of skiing. Dinner was $.75. The excursion was so popular that the dormitory at Norden Station was inadequate…the railroad company had to park extra cars in Truckee to accomodate the folks.

View of Lake Van Norden on the high meadow by Soda Springs.

A long freight train lumbers through the Jeffery Pine forest with an occasional blow of the air horn. What a view!!

Soda Springs Station and Hotel was built in 1927 for the newly constructed highway US-40. In 1980 it was converted into a condo complex.

The Cycling Tuscan lost in California history! Sitting on the front porch of the Soda Springs Store and Post Office on old US 40. Elevation 6700 ft. and nary a whisper of computers, Silicon Valley or the internet. They advertise chimney sweeping, the coldest beer, snow chains and snowboards. Their Internet is the myriad of postings on the wall by the front door. The proprietress sported old fashioned hospitality and lamented her upcoming trip into the Sacramento Valley because of the heat. I sipped on my coffee and watched folks coming in their trucks and suvs for a quick something or other and disappear just as quickly. The air was clear, cool with a scent of pine. It felt good to take it deep into your lungs. I could hear the rumble of a long train behind. I called Patricia and shared the moment. It was good to be alive!

Joseph Tinker was described as a ‘hard driving, hard drinking’ freight wagon driver from the 1860’s. He delivered supplies to nearby mining areas. With a partner he started a hotel and originally Soda Springs was known as Tinker’s Station. This hostel is a european type accommodation servicing skiers, tourists and sports’ enthusiasts who enjoy this spectacular area.

From here old US-40 follows the newly built US-80 and the rocky shores of the North Fork of the Yuba River.  It’s a joyous ride, downhill, threading through forests, in summer sunshine with sounds of rushing, crashing waters against granite boulders jutting from the river bed. The slope is gentle and I maintain 25 to 30mph. Mountain flowers form splashes of color against grasses on the forest floor. Shafts of sunlight burrow through forest shade to find the brightest whites and most radiant greens. My gaze is captured by these gems of nature. Then I go under the freeway to be enshrouded in cool shade with the sound of grinding traffic disrupting the dreamy interlude. Ah! I think…now we travel in a few hours what would have taken weeks or months. But…with the convenience and speed of modern day something is lost. To notice the less noticed. To smell unusual plants or flowers with unknown names. To lay the bike down and sit on a boulder mid stream with furious spray caressing your face. To see an occasional trout jump and the sunlight catching its magical colors. But most of all to slow down and let all the cares of the world gently disappear and let yourself ‘just be’. I believe that the human animal is like a fine instrument. To function at its peak it must be allowed to resonate. Not forced. Not pressured. Not made to do anything. To express its own will and be allowed to interact with its environment in a natureal way. To go where it will go. To do what it will do. The resulting feelings, thoughts and epiphanies are unique. They are quality. The rest…well, the rest is ‘cannon fodder’.

The Rainbow Tavern and Lodge! It serviced travelers on the old Emigrant Trail. Then a Stagecoach stop. Finally a lodge with amenities for travelers along the two lane US-40.

As it would have looked in the old days. I can just imagine Burma Shave signs by the roadside. Do you remember Burma Shave???

A place to repose. Across the way walls of service station and store remain.

Folks would come and fish and have their catch cooked by chefs at the lodge. And…aficionados of skiing could spend their days on the nearby slopes or trek cross country. Way back when…the journey was as important as the destination.

The ride back from Cisco Grove was a rewarding effort of bicycle riding. With head down over the bars I concentrated on the steady rhythm to climb the 1500 feet in altitude back to the summit. There was no traffic. Then a swoosh down Donner Pass with majestic views and the best treat of all on the outskirts of Truckee….an extra large, cold, chocolate milk shake.

Along 89 to North Shore Lake Tahoe

The South Shore of Donner Lake is a view of a lake resort area as it might have looked yesteryear. Vacation homes in remote settings are set wide apart with nary a peson to be seen. And…all have a bigger than life view of the lake and mountains.

 It was work till the Squaw Valley entrance. Then the trek turned into sheer delight  and awe. The roar of the ever present and threatening traffic of Highway 89 yielded to the serenity of a hidden bicycle path hewn through the lush alpine forest beside rushing white waters. Yes…this is a bike path that all who come to this area should enjoy.

And a few more miles of this sylvan paradise and my journey happened upon a most opportune lunch spot….

The River Ranch at the entrance of Alpine Meadows. I remember this place…Patricia and I spent our honeymoon here many years ago. It was delightful then. It looked delightful now.

So, here I rest. And…look upon the waters and rafters as they make their final turn at the end of their adventure. I listen to old selections of rock ‘n roll from the sixties as I await my hamburger and fries. Sometimes life is just perfect. Which reminds me of the quote that my daughter, Gina, introduced to me….’Le vie, ne pas besoigne d’eter partait, pour etre marvellouz! (I’ll check the spelling)

And quietly and gently I enter route 29 along the north shore of Lake Tahoe and Tahoe City. There are familiar places that I recognize…Bacchi’s being one. An old style family type of restaurant that needs to be appreciated because of its ambiance and longevity. It’s nestled in the pines near the lake and offers bounteous food for vacationing families. We had many good times here over the years.

Over the rise at Carnelian Bay there is the fist majestic view of the big waters. And…how beautiful it is. Mark Twain in his travel would always compare other beautiful lakes to Tahoe…and, Tahoe would always come out on top.

And…all from the seat of my bicycle. I marvel at this beauty and such vistas never fail to impress.

As I descend Carnelian Bay into the flatter shorelines of Brockway and King’s Beach a yearning awakens within. It’s my fuel tank. It’s a bit low and I begin to picture a frosty and rich chocolate milk shake. I try a few places that ought to have such but walk away with my bike disappointed. And yearning for the thick shake even more!

So, I begin the climb to Brockway Summit. It’s another bit of a grind and the afternoon traffic leaving the north Tahoe area is bothersome.

However with the summit behind me and the satisfaction of another summit in my cycling accomplishments I enjoy the descent into the Truckee Meadows by the Northstar Golf Course. I’ve always loved these high meadows. Although this afternoon it’s a bit windy. I look forward to that ‘shake in Truckee.

EVENING IN TRUCKEE, AFTER THE RIDE!

After a good shower and all equipment stowed I relax in this wonderful guest room of the Truckee Hotel. I just love the richness of the woods and the reddish hues form the wallpaper and paint. It is so suggestive of the old western hospitality and ambiance. Here I write notes and themes fresh from the day’s adventure. It’s a wonderful way to relax and capture quality on paper.

A comfortable, affordable room with a view!

And…a stroll before dinner. A few doors down I was able to find that chocolate shake.

 And…greetings to all from downtown Truckee.

Trips taken June and September 2012. 

The Cycling Tuscan

Luciano J. Ercolini

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Luciano J. Ercolini, Broker/Owner

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SKYLINERoute-day one

Page Mill Rd to Alpine to San Gregorio, Half Moon Bay, Devil’s Slide, Montara, Pacifica and San Francisco

 

Route-day two

Mission District, Lake Merced, Sunset,Golden Gate Park, Cliff  House, Sea Cliff, Presidio, Golden Gate Bridge, Sausalito, MillValley, Corte Madera, San Anselmo, Fairfax, White’s Hill, Olema, Pt. Reyes, Marconi, Marshall, Tomales Bay, Valley Ford, Round and Round, THE WASHOE HOUSE, Rohnert Park

Route-day three

Sonoma State, Penngrove, Petaluma, Nicasio Lake, Lucas Valley Road, Big Rock, San Rafael, Greenbrae, Corte Madera, Sausalito, GG Bridge, Presidio, Fisherman’s Wharf and Train Station.

Total Mileage—258.5 miles

Flat tires—4

Horrible places—Devil’s Slide, Highway 1 south of Half Moon Bay, Road markings west ofSanta Rosa, traffic attitude in SonomaCounty.

Beautiful places—Vistas from Alpine Road, selected areas of Highway 1, Pacifica, Golden GateBridge, Persidio,Sausalito, Bike path North of Sausalito into Corte Madera, Fairfax, Pt. Reyes, Tomales Bay and that absolutely necessary beer at the Washoe House on Roblar Road, Bike path from GG Bridge through Presidio onto Marina and Fisherman’s Wharf and finally a heavenly and triumphal ride down the Embarcadero to the train station.

 

Mistakes—forgot sun block, did not drink enough electrolytes, did not put new tires on bike, did not have bike rack on bike.

The Narrative:

It was Sunday, the day of final preparation for the bike trip. It was a mild summer day and felt light hearted as I tidied last details and errands dressed in T shirt, shorts and flip flops. Light rock from FM KOIT played gently in the background as I looked forward to the many adventures ahead of me in the next few days. A patch kit and spare inner tube purchased at Walt’s Bike Shop on Carroll St. completed my preparation. I returned home tranquilly and finished the packing. Water, Power Bars, a light backpack, my new Giant Bike, a few bucks and credit cards was all I needed. All was tidily packed and ready.

Six came early the next morning revealing an overcast but warm day. I sipped coffee and watched Lance ride on OLN Network and wondered if I really wanted to do this. Am I nuts or what, I thought. The comfort of the couch and a sleepy body acted as the inertia to the beginning of the trip.

By six thirty I pushed my achy and sleepy body through the garage door with water bottle in hand and set the bike on the pavement. Time to go! Time to go!  At the first stop light on Fremont  I remembered that the water bottle was carelessly left atop Patricia’s car as I had lifted the bike off the ceiling hooks. I rode sleepily and lazily through the morning traffic of Sunnyvale and Los Altos. At Loyola Corners I stopped at the convenience store behind the gas station and bought a two liter bottle of Evian. An older, cheery, tall counter clerk queried me as to what Evian meant backwards. I strained with sleepy eyes and a slothful mind at the label of the bottle almost annoyed at the question. The mental mechanism slowly and painfully began to move.

“Yep, yep, naïve! And how very appropriate for this French stuff”, I said.

The clerk sported a broad self pleased smile as he handed me the change and in a friendly style said, “have a good ride and good day”

“Adios, my friend”, I replied.

Up familiar Foothill Expressway I began to gather momentum. My spirits were awakening to the adventure ahead. My body and energy also began to awaken. The familiar road assumed a cloak of adventure as it was the gateway to my long planned trip up the coast to Marin and Sonoma Counties.

Old Page Mill Road is a throwback. A short stretch of quaint, tree shaded winding and hidden road runs adjacent to the new expressway, a beehive of activity during most times of the day and night. Once beyond the 280 underpass the traffic disappears and the road winds through its two thousand foot ascent to Skyline Boulevard. I’d climbed this road a number of times before and though never easy I’d forgotten how challenging some of the more rigorous climbs truly were. I stopped several times to drink water and chew on a Power Bar. “Tough, tough, tough,” I thought. About three quarter of the way to the summit I stopped and looked back to Silicon Valley sleepily still hidden in the low fog with the sun peering above and shedding soft light on the upper slopes. When the summit finally came my spirits soared as I began to traverse a road never before traveled.

 

THE SUMMIT** PAGE MILL ROAD** HIGHWAY 35, SKYLINE BOULEVARD** ALPINE ROAD

It’s always a moment of triumph at the summit of any climb!!!

Across Highway 35, the summit, from Page Mill Road is Alpine Road, the beginning of the descent to the coast and the town of San Gregorio. The name still rings with spicy thoughts from my younger days of nude beaches somewhere in this wild coast land. The road became a narrow ribbon following the contours of the ridge lines, diving into oak groves, following narrow creeks and rising onto crests revealing the many golden coastal hills in all directions. Ranches and an occasional home interrupted the natural curves of the rolling hills.

It’s only its remoteness and lack of good roads which saves this beautiful unspoiled country from the ravages of housing developments, high density housing and all the modern trappings of civilization. Perhaps this is why I love bike touring so, the capacity to enter this desolate country on my own power without disturbing one iota of the environment.

Alpine Road continues its descent towards the coast for six miles till it junctures with Pescadero Road and Highway 84. The ride is pleasant as it is mostly downhill and darts in wooded areas along creeks and the coolness of the shade is welcome. Just before the Highway 84 junction by La Honda I enter a thick forest of majestic redwood trees. The air is cool, the light, what little there is, pierces the darkness of the giants and I walk by the running stream with steep banks covered with lush fern and giant clover. There is stillness and darkness and piercing beams of bright morning sunshine and I feel the soft ground under my feet. The feeling is serene.  It’s a special place. It’s majestic. It possesses the eerie silence and coolness of the most glorious of European cathedrals.

It’s Heritage Woods and definitely a place worth a second visit-perhaps, a day ride with a picnic lunch eaten under the redwoods and then resume the trip to the coast. It amazes me how some can be bored! With a little effort and a bit of a sense of adventure discovery and excitement are just waiting—just waiting to join the human spirit and contribute to a delightful and uplifting time. Patricia and Domino will love this spot on the way to the coast. Oh! What a pleasant thought that is!

I marvel at clover, lush and green, the size of my hand. Could there be a four leafer? Nope! Can’t find one. No matter-I’m already lucky to have experienced such a spiritual place…..and the wonderful surprise of it all.

I pick up Highway 84 just west of La Honda. It’s a two lane road, wide and with comfortable shoulders. The traffic is sparse and the countryside begins to assume the flavor of the nearby coast. There are some homes and ranches. One such ranch advertises an upcoming rodeo with food and all the rodeo stuff. Just imagine–out here in the middle of nowhere. But perhaps it’s a renowned local event.  I ride easily and enjoy the mild road and expansive vistas. The sun has disappeared and it’s gray and overcast. At Stage Road, a much better route rejoining Highway 1 just before Half Moon Bay, I stop at a delightful building with Spanish facade. The large lettering in front says San Gregorio General Store. A couple of old guys sat on the low window ledges sipping on their morning coffees. A hand written sign by the front door asked bicyclists to remove their shoes. As I entered the businesslike lady behind the counter looked at me and I immediately replied that my shoes had no cleats. She smiled and waved me in.

It was a large open store with an eclectic collection of merchandise. A long counter against the wall served food, drinks, sandwiches, beer, wine and booze. Half dozen neat wooden tables formed a tidy dining area in front of the broad front windows. There were books of interesting and odd varieties. There were lots and lots of bizarre cards—old cowboys, movie stars, antique signs, odd sayings. Every corner was crammed with amusing items. I ordered some coffee and strolled through the narrow isles and noted many items that amused me. As I left I commented that I would be back with four wheels and meant it too. It would be a good addition to that day trip after the picnic in Heritage Woods.

 

From San Gregorio to Half Moon Bay, Highway 1 was somewhat dreadful. It was mountainous and laden with traffic. Packs of ten and twenty motorcycle guys in their leathers and round helmets all in black screamed by at what seemed regular intervals. I could feel the roar of their engines in my chest. There were plenty of motor homes and trucks too. The traffic produced a wrenching and grinding, gritty noise which soon gave me a headache and made me question my judgment in regards to choosing this route. Then my front tire went flat.

 

At least it’s the front tire, I thought. It was cool, noisy and uncomfortable by the side of the road. However, I soon resumed the trip after applying a patch and removing a sticker from the tire. Up ahead one of the motorcycle guys had parked his big bike in the bicycle lane and was chatting away under a nearby tree on his cell phone. After passing him by some fifty yards, boom, another flat in the front tire again. What a pisser, I thought. There I went again with the patches and glue and all that unpleasant rigmarole. Out of the corner of the eye I could see the motorcycler walking towards me as I kept working on the tire.

 

“How you doing”, he said. “My tank gauge must be malfunctioning. I can’t believe it. Fortunately, my girl friend went on ahead to get some gas.”

 

“That’s fortunate”, I said. “Half Moon Bay is just up ahead and she should have no trouble finding gas. I’m not having much luck with these darn tires. It’s the second flat in less than a mile. What a bummer”

 

“Well, good luck”, he said as he began to return to his bike.

 

I continued with my repairs. I noted that he had mounted his bike down the road and heard the roar of the engine. Never thought a thing about it and went on with my repairs.

 

He came to me again. With a sheepish look on his face he said” well, I figured out how to work the spare tank valve.”

 

I began to laugh and momentarily forgot how pissed off I was at the stinking flat. He was laughing, too.

 

“However”, he said, “I’m not going to tell my girl friend about this.”

 

We both laughed again and he returned to his bike. I hopped on mine and resumed my trip north.

 

North of Half Moon Bay the shoulder widened and the traffic seemed to be less bothersome although still heavy.  The coastal communities of Moss Beach, Montara and Rockaway go by as I see occasional sunshine and fine view of the Pacific coastline. At Montara I see a gaily decorated shop, Caffe Lucca. I have to stop. It’s an artsy craftsy type with floors of cement dabbed with different splotches of colored paint. There are two rooms with windows to the highway and a patio to the rear. I sip my coffee at one of the table and note the décor on the walls. The owners must be from Lucca, I thought, as I focus on an interesting rather wide panoramic view of the amphitheater of Lucca. It was a wonderful view of the spot and had never quite seen it done that way. Although….my pictures taken under the arches from either end tended to be more dramatic and artistically better, this one was good and enjoyed looking at it. I thought of asking the counter girl about Lucca and the owners’ ancestry but thought better of it as she was busy and after hearing a few of her comments she sounded like a disinterested and uninformed teenager. She probably did not know anything about Lucca.

The craggy, rocky, rugged mountains which drop to the surf and the thin road lodged on a thin shelf describes the area known as Devil’s Slide. I began the five hundred foot climb with care and deliberation. There is no shoulder but there is plenty of traffic; the matter is further exacerbated by construction all along the climb with cement dividers further encroaching on the road. Cars were passing by what seemed just a few inches and around curves too. “Wow”, I thought,” this is not bright”.  I continued to climb and sped up around corners to minimize my exposure. “Definitely, definitely, this is my one and only time on this infernal stretch, if I make it alive,” I thought. And…just to show that “crazy” is relative, at that moment in a leisurely and placid mood comes a rider on a recumbent towing a small trailer down the slope occupying a quarter of the road with plenty of traffic behind. He was smiling and waved to me seemingly oblivious to the dangers about him. It made me laugh!!! The guys on recumbents are a strange lot.

Beginning the climb to Devil’s Slide.

Never, Ever, Again!!!!

At Sharp Park Highway 1 turned into a freeway with no bikes so I meandered through city streets and found a route hugging the coastline to the Pacific. Remember the song? “Little houses, Tiki Tocki, and …they’re all the same!!! That’s the one! Pacifica on the hills preceeding San Francisco. Well, let me tell you—the neighborhoods are every bit as steep as they look from Highway 280…and it was hot too. But I found my way without too much trouble as I had the foresight to bring a good selection of maps neatly packed in the bottom pocket of my useful Claris, freebie, backpack.

 

Never having traveled this road before I originally had unrealistic expectations as to how far I would progress on this, day one. By now it was fourish and San Francisco seemed like a good place to hole up for the night. As I turned towards Lake Merced my mind turned to dinner. Ah! Yes, dinner, what a wonderful idea. The thought of food, perhaps a veal scaloppini, or chicken parmigiana, a wine, French bread….yes, yes, yes. I had the perfect place in mind, the Granada Café in the Mission.

 

From Lake Merced cut across the San Francisco State campus and took Holloway Street towards the Mission. It was pleasant. And surprisingly so. The residential streets of San Francisco, as I was to find out, were without traffic and pleasant to travel. Without much effort I found myself in front of the Granada Café where I asked the bartender permission to bring my bike in.

I sat, had a beer or two and talked to some of the old guys at the bar. I didn’t recognize anyone from the old days. All dead, old or gone, I suppose. Jose, the chef of twenty five years or more, had just left his day shift but was still running the kitchen. My friend Michael was dead as of a year ago. Charlie Stuhr, the lawyer, comes in once in a while but is very ill, I was told. The place looked precisely as I had remembered it from the eighties. John, the owner, who is now eighty nine, still runs the place and lives downstairs in his basement apartment.

 

Smirian, the head waitress, whom I remember, came over and took my order. I ate a salad with blue cheese dressing, antipasto plate with French bread, rigatoni Bolognese, a delightful chicken parmigiana and a couple of glasses of house red wine. A gourmet meal at the most renowned of places could not have produced more satisfaction.

 

Just down the street I found a motel, The Avalon. Not great but cheap and convenient. It cost $70 for the night and I had a ground floor room. That night when I called Patricia and described the room, she told me to watch out for bed bugs. I thought of that more than once as I dozed off to sleep that night.

 

 

END, DAY ONE!!

The next morning, bright and early, at sixish I found my way across Mission Street to a non Starbuck’s coffee shop run by a serious minded Chinese guy. The storefront was scrubbed delightfully clean and furnished with only the necessities-a counter with display cases, a few tables, a cash register and a plastic lit menu on the wall.  A coffee and a plain donut was my breakfast. I sat at the corner table and watched the workers come in for their morning coffee and roll before their day’s work. Traffic was sparse and many of the stores were not yet open. It was a typical overcast San Francisco morning.

I traced my way back to Lake Mercedand followed Sunset Boulevard to the outer Sunset. The old neighborhood beckoned. 44^th to 46^th Avenues between Judah and Lawton were my first visions of San Francisco and the US of A when I first came from Italy in the late fifties. I rode slowly around the neighborhoods and must say that the area looked rather shabby but not much really had changed in fifty years.

Down 44^th Avenue, across Lincoln Boulevard into Golden Gate Park I cruised and stopped in front of the windmill,Queen Whilomena Park. It was just beautiful with dainty colorful flowers. A few more feet and I was on the Great Highway with a fine view of the Pacific and the Cliff House. Up the hill and onto Clement Street for a mile or so till I turned into Sea Cliff, the area I had always admired when young for their fine homes and neighborhoods. When visiting my Aunt Bruna I would always travel that route and dream that some day when I found my fortune in life I would live in such a place. Those dreams are now somewhat tarnished and dusty and no longer hold the magnetism of youth.

The Presidio is a wonderful old relic of the history of San Francisco and much overlooked. The buildings are picturesque reminiscent of the early Spanish days of California. I rode through Fort Winfield Scott and stopped to admire a fine vista of the Golden Gate Bridge from one of the fortifications built to defend the bay in the 1890s. I’ve lived in this area most of my life and moments like this make me realize the beauty and drama of our environs.

Merchant Road off Lincoln Boulevard on the way to GG Bridge

presents 1890 vintage fortifications defending the bay.

Merchant Road ends at the Toll Plaza to the bridge. Wow! Even to the most uncritical eye the scene commands attention. The Toll Plaza buildings, the coffee shop on the east side, and the majestic bridge all present to the eye a continuous display of style—Art Deco, spanning the entrance to our marvelous bay. One is moved to admit—this is not just a bridge—this is a work of art. Rustic, bold and strong in the brazen rust orange color. The builders knew that this was an icon of greatness. A testament to the human spirit—to build, to progress, to harness the challenges of nature.

I stood in front of the coffee shop looking at the statue of Strauss with his creation behind and just marveled. And….remembered!  Yes, remembered the stories that my mother, Mary Alice, would always tell me with pride. On the first day of opening of this great bridge in 1937 it was only for pedestrians. She was one of those historic people who were the first to walk the span to Marin County. I heard that story many times but never appreciated it till now. Perhaps it takes reaching a mature age to see and savor such things.

STRAUSS AND HIS BRIDGE!

GRACE STRENGTH BOLDNESS

The strands across the span hold up the roadway and thus a bridge exists. Truly simple! And yet, the two craggy faces of the shoals, separated by more than a mile of maritime currents, are spanned by this thin, stylish and resilient ribbon of iron. The currents thrust waters in and out of the bay with savage force. Winds blow the road surface and the cables with rhythmic gusts. The salt waters and sea spray attack the rust colored paint and iron beneath, but it stands. It absorbs the forces, it endures the elements, it sways with the wind, it parts the currents; it has done so since its inception in 1937. It lives in harmony with its environment and has become an iconic symbol of the community.

 

However, to truly appreciate its size and magnificence one must place himself in the most rudimentary form. To walk or run across it—-yes! To ride a bicycle—that’s my way. The winds howl across the strands. The bridge sways subtly but noticeably. Splotches of the orange paint are missing revealing the work of the sea. The vibrations and noise from the ever present traffic force the suspension to vibrate as an instrument. I look to the south and see the San Francisco skyline, Alkatraz and the southern shore of Marin all in the early morning haze. I take pictures as I wish to remember this moment. It will be an instant placed with other iconic moments which are naturally filed under “pinnacles of the aesthetic” to be accessed at random times as life goes by. This moment will rank with “the first sight of the Grand Canal as you climb the steps from the train station”, “the first view of Lake Tahoe from the summit on Highway 267 South from Truckee, “Europabrucke going south onto the Brenner Pass”, “the steely winter waters of Lake Tahoe from the slopes of Diamond Peak’, …..and… many more. But this moment will be there neatly tucked in the synapse world waiting for the call.

View from Vista Point!

Picture taken by a tourist.

Then there is Alexander Drive descending from the world of the urbane to the bohemian. The bay and silhouetted views of the San Francisco skyline display a rich color palate in the soft morning light. However, the voices of the past speak of steamy rapture, bawdy houses, iconoclastic artists, rough and tumble fishermen and beatniks with their coffee houses. Could we ever forget Sally Stanford? The madam! The lady of the house! The mayor of Sausalito! The owner and hands on manager of the Valhalla House, commanding the northern entry to Sausalito and a breathtaking view of the “City”. Good old Sally did things her way and the old fashioned way. It was in the early seventies when I would travel from the south bay to see my aged parents in Fairfax in Marin County. On the way back I would stop at the Valhalla House for a drink, or dinner but really I just loved the local color. The food was mediocre and expensive. At the end of the bar there was a barber chair all decked out in red leather, with the foot rest and all the trimmings done in chrome. Oddly enough it did not stand out nor did it seem bizarre as there were plenty of other quirky things to look at—-wrought iron head boards on the walls, red lights, old pictures of SF, red flocked wall paper. So why not a barber chair! All part of her Barbary Coast Days. Heh!

 

On one such visit the barber chair was occupied. It was Sally. It had to be as it had been made clear to me on prior visits that no one…but no one other than Sally..ever, ever dared to sit in that chair. As I sat at the bar sipping on my wine and looking out the window to the SF skyline a gruff and admonishing voice was heard over the normal chatter of the bar. “Too much booze”, “Not that way” etc. She would be directing the show as the bartenders calmly went on with their task. The drinks were mixed with small bottles of mixes and not with the automated guns as was the norm in every other bar.   Her hair, all gray was up in a tight bun and she reclined in that barber chair dishing out her energy. What a scene. It was worth the price.

 

Now of course Sausalito filled with tourists and the homes and environs have been gentrified. You know- the upwardly mobile with the light colors, the skylights and the corian counters. All light and bright with nary a hint of character. The BMW’s in the garage, day care, ergonomics, herbal teas, Starbucks Frapuccinos for five bucks and no smoking on the sidewalks of Sausalito. I think I wanna barf!

I strolled down Bridgeway Street and noted that my favorite men’s store, Gene Hiller, where I had bought many a fine clothes for my maitre’d days in the restaurant business was gone. I rode easily in light traffic out of the city and stopped at Caffe Trieste. I sipped on regular coffee in a large cup and sat on a sidewalk table looking at the homes on the rising mountain across the street. In a rare empty lot which I gathered was soon to be under construction was a series of very tall stakes with ribbons drawing horizontals to the house just behind. The views! The views! I could just hear the objections and heckling at the city planning sessions. “We were here first”, Our views  to SF”, and on and on with all that tripe. I looked at my new Giant bike leaning on the traffic post just in front of my table and thought—“How beautiful! How simple!

 

A double tap on the horn came from a gleaming Prussian blue BMW convertible waiting to make a left turn as the driver smiled and waved to the couple sitting at the table next to me. A few minutes later they were united. He spread plans on the table and their conversations turned to elevation plans and colors and feel this…feel that. They were probably the owners of the lot across the street. All of a sudden the bike and the road ahead looked unusually attractive.

Beyond the underpass to Mill Valley I happily stumble onto a bike path which traversed the low bay lands of Richardson Bay towards Corte Madera and Geenbrae and Kentfield. By this peaceful route I entered the world of my adolescence. There were joggers and occasional other cyclists but I progressed through the expansive plain effortlessly with the bay behind and the mountains of Marin ahead. As I scanned the scenery the reclining indian maiden captured my focus.  It was Mt.Tamalpais, of course. I remembered my mother telling me about the reclining maiden and I never could see it. But today there it was plain and clear. Of course, what my mother never pointed out was that the profile of the maiden could only be seen when viewing the mountain traveling north and not from Fairfax where we lived. But now, some fifty years later, I got it! I could just see her shaking her head with a wry smile…..Luciano! Luciano!!!

 

I follow the highly trafficked E. Blithesdale out of Mill Valley and climb along Camino Alto for several miles into Corte Madera. I continue through familiar city streets through the town of Larkspur and the trendy Lark Creek Inn, onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard through Ross, San Anselmo and into Fairfax. I take time to follow a nostalgia trail through the center of town. The only store I recognize is Celoni’s Liquor Store and the Variety Store. Lady Baltimore Bakery, my mother’s favorite and a must stop for a cake every Sunday after church at St. Rita’s up the street, was no longer there. The baseball field where we played little league, St. Rita’s Church, and our old house on Vista Way with a grand view I examined slowly while memories from my youth surfaced.

 

Power Bars, Power Bars and more Power Bars! And lots of water, too! That’s what I would consume throughout the day.  It worked very well but by the third day of riding I determined that the electrolyte balance was way off. The water quenched my thirst but my energy level dropped and felt fatigued.  The water needed to be supplemented with Gatorade or some such drink to replace needed nutrients.

Beyond Fairfax the Marin countryside is sparsely populated and the terrain is mountainous and thick with vegetation. White’s Hill is the fist challenge and the heat of the day it required a good effort to reach the summit. I stopped at Laganitas for a yogurt and a rest as a couple of guys and a girl offered me a seat at their table. It felt good to rest and sit in the shade. We chatted and soon they were spinning their tale of woes. It seems that a member of their party was injured and now on the way to the hospital and their car was on the fritz, and they had to get back to San Rafael to catch a bus and they had no money….and…and… I finished my one of two yogurts I had bought and said, “I’m sorry to hear all your woes. Here is a yogurt and $5 if that helps. Now I gotta be on my way to Sonoma County. Good luck, guys”

 

I’m sure that I was a soft touch but who cares, I thought.  It was shady and pleasant riding through Samuel Taylor state park; the road was narrow and winding; there was no traffic and soon I emerged into the rolling, coastal hills with dry golden grass and refreshing breezes.

 

Pt. Reyes is an interesting town with its blend of ranch and Victorian architecture.Main street is lined with businesses and there is a fair amount of activity. I pass a saloon which catches my eye. I ride on as I never have a beer during the day. Another block and I began to slow. That place is awful interesting, I thought. Perhaps an exception ought to be made. My bike made a lazy u-turn and gathered speed towards that saloon. I climbed the brick steps and brought my bike inside. The little white dog which was slumped at the entrance rolled an eyeball towards me from its comatose pose. It was a western saloon, rough and tumble and picturesque.

“A draft beer”, I said, and began a conversation with the bartender.

“Is that dog the boss”, I asked as I pointed to the reclining pooch.

“That’s Fred”, she said, “the boss and guard dog”

 

We both chuckled. I finished my beer and listened to the idle chatter between the two older locals seated at the end of the long wooden bar.

Highway 1 proceeds north along Tomales Bay, a most unusual natural formation. The wind had picked up and was always in my face, or so it seemed. The town of Marconi, Marshall and Tomales went by. In the middle of a field just off the road were a hand full of folks flying huge kites, brightly colored and briskly undulating with the currents.

 

This entire area of northern Marin is desolate, beautiful and unspoiled. It’s a blend of coastal wet lands, rolling golden hills and isolated villages hanging on to economic life long after the forces for their beginning has disappeared.

FLYING KITES ALONG TOMALES BAY!!

RUGGED COUNTRY AROUND TOMALES BAY!!

TOMALES BAY OYSTERS!!

I was beginning to feel a bit fatigued. It was the effect of the day’s heat, dehydration and the constant head wind. Now I can see that my electrolytes were out of balance. Just drinking water did help. But as I crossed the county line into Sonoma, my spirits surged as I was close to a shower, dinner and rest.

 

However, unbeknown to me at the time, my adventure and fatigue were not over. At the juncture of Highway 1 and Petaluma Valley Road I headed for familiar names without referring to a map. I recognized Valley Ford and that’s where I went. By the time I realized my mistake I was mired in fatigue, mountain roads, dehydration,Bohemian Highway, Sonoma County traffic and aggressive hayseed trucks. My temper was getting short too—partly at myself for making a mistake so late in the day and partly the reawakening at the Sonoma County country/hayseed mentality. In most of the bay area bicycling is viewed as a healthy and accepted sport but in Sonoma County it is considered sport for those speeding ranch trucks probably rushing to their favorite beer dive. It was all coming back and negative feelings were surfacing from the past.

 

After what seemed forever Burnside Road passed by Bloomfield and I was back on Petaluma Road. The Power Bar I had eaten a few miles back was sticking to my throat as I also had run out of water. But soon I was on Roblar Road and with additional effort the red façade and roofline of the Washoe House was discernible over the tree line. “A Godsend,” I thought. I lodged my bike in the entry way so that I could see it from inside and entered. It was déjà vu all over again as Yogi would say. A few red faces were lined around the dilapidated bar. The dirt, the faded dollar bills and cards pinned to the ceiling, the streaky mirrors and the dirt infested floors and a good coating of dust all over—yes! Yes! All the elements were present. Like a museum—all was preserved.

 

I was so glad to be here, though. I sat on the rickety bar stool with a slumping thud. “A draft”, I grunted and shoved a fiver to the slovenly dressed bartender. He gave me the change with nary a word and resumed his loud conversation with his red faced cronies. I phased them all out and turned my attention to the times I had visited this place on the way to golf trips and also those early days which had not been as of yet tarnished with those awful years in Rohnert Park. Back then it was viewed with interest, history and local curiosity. Ulysses S.Grant was reputed to have stayed here. And…if you look closely they probably have the same shot glass—unwashed and all. I sipped the beer slowly and chuckled at the round and about loop that I had taken, the road signs I had missed and the extra miles I had tacked onto my one hundred and ten mile plus day. The garbage dump was close by and this place had a popular following with those country boys who combine the dump and a shot. Just perfect!!!

 

Calm, refreshed and relaxed I finished the last few miles, turned onto Rohnert Park Espressway and viewed my former nemeses—The Olive Garden, Red Lobster and the “lords of the manor”, “the counts of hickdom”, my former landlords, the Coddings. “Don’t go there, Louie”, I thought! It’s all past history and it’s buried.

 

I checked into Motel 6 and a great deal it was– nice clean room, a hot shower and a bill of $49. Perfect! The inconveniences of an electronic key that did not work, a dreadful visit to one of our old haunts, the Boulevard Café, now a drug ridden dive, a failed attempt to get a cold drink at Burger King’s drive through on foot and perhaps one of the worst breakfasts I was to have the next morning, were all overcome by that delightful steak dinner served by a spry and intelligent staff at the Outback Steakhouse. I was back in Rohnert Park but I was not suicidal……I would leave bright and early the next morning.

END, DAY TWO!

 

 

At the Black Bear Restaurant across the parking lot from my room I waited at the counter as the harried waitress became settled with the demands of her two early morning tables. The lone cowboy I noted smoking a cigarette while leaning on his tattered car in front came in and sat at one of the counter seats for coffee. I selected the hearty combo breakfast and waited to order. The small restaurant chain was founded in the Shasta area and known for its friendliness and hearty food or so the back of the menu said. The cook behind the line was getting ready for the day’s business but certainly was not ready for us this early in the morning. I got coffee and ordered and soon the platter was placed in front of me. The waffle was doughy, the bacon was soggy and limp and the eggs were tasteless. I made myself eat as I would have a long day of riding but remembered the very best waffles in the world served at the Hyatt Incline Village. No comparison, I thought as I ate what I could, paid the bill and left.

 

I rode through the shopping centers to see what businesses I could recognize. Most were the same but looked seedy. I rode briskly and somewhat detached and delighted that I was not longer mired in this place. I skirted around Sonoma State University and towards Petaluma to AAA for some maps. I had noted that there seemed to be no direct bike route out of Sonoma County. Nope! Nope! Nope! And…I had examined all my cache of maps but could only get to Novato and then only US 101. I thought to call the police department but by the time I arrived at the triple A office and surveyed the new supply of maps I decided to head inland and meet the juncture at Nicasio Reservoir and come out in Terra Linda. It was a circuitous route, desolate and mountainous but filled with many scenes of the rich golden oak tree laden hills so typical of California. I completed the mental picture of northern Marin and the gentrified expansion from the thin strip of growth along the 101 corridor. It was hot, it was mountainous, and it was difficult. The cumulative effect of dehydration had robbed me of all power and that breakfast was a detriment now sitting in my stomach.

 

The ride was hot and boring. At the top of a promontory I noted a monstrous rock as I descended towards Terra Linda. Good heavens! There is a convenience store with umbrellas in front. I drank two twenty ounce bottles of Gatorade without pause. And…sat for a while. It was elevenish and I had a ways to go before I arrived at my destination, the train station in San Francisco. I chuckled to myself as I noted then name of the store, Big Rock. That’s about it; that was the only distinguishable landmark in fifty miles.

 

The Gatorade did the trick. I was back on track. Terra Linda,San Rafael, over the hill by San Quentin onto Greenbrae and Kentfield to find the gentle bicycle trail by Richardson Bay towards Sausalito. I was refreshed and vibrant again as I looked forward to a rest stop and a beer at some wonderful and lively spot in Sausalito with a wonderful view. But….sometimes plans don’t materialize. At the beginning of Bridgeway Street in Sausalito my back tire blew and with a loud pop, too. The second flat that day.

A fine view of the Missionin San Rafael—picture taken from Third St.

Luciano was awarded “alter boy of the year” from St. Rita’s Parish in Fairfax. Ceremony held here in 1959.

…You never know where life leads you….but this is one place that I rode by and did not stop!!!

San Quentin

I dismantled the bike and began the usual procedure. Upon examination I noted that the tire was frayed and worn. It needed to be replaced and fortunately I remembered a bike shop just up the street. I repaired the tire and limped on in to Mike’s Bike shop.

” New tires, new inner tubes”, I said to the attendant at the shop, “and how long will it take. I’m on the road and wish to get going as soon as possible”.

 

The nice young man said that they could do it right away. “Good”, I said, “I’ll be drinking a beer and I’ll be back.

 

I bought a cold can of beer at the convenience store a few feet away and walked just behind the center where there was a cozy park with fine view of the houseboats and Sausalito hidden life and the reclining maiden of Mt. Tamalpais.

A fine view to sip a cold beer by as the bike is being once again made road worthy!

Sometimes luck is with you!! A beautiful picture. The bike ready to go!!!

Into SausalitoI went. And….with vigor, too! Just ahead of me I recognized a cyclist as the gentleman who had stopped at my flat tire and had advised me to change tires every two thousand miles. We began a conversation as we rode through Sausalito and parted as the road narrowed up the slope of Alexander Drive. I climbed with power and ease. I crossed the bridge and followed the bike trail which skirted the bay towards the Marina. It was sunny, the ride was pleasant, the view was breathtaking and there was no traffic. I felt privileged to be riding through this international city without the impediment of traffic. Through the Presidio and onto North Beach, by the cable cars and in front of the Buena Vista was my route. No cars and crowds were to be seen. Miraculous! I thought.

A rare scene! Riding through San Francisco without cars or crowds.

Once by the Embarcadero, I rode easily on the wide sidewalk skirting the occasional pedestrian or jogger or roller blader. I was close so I rode without a care. I cast my sights on the bay with the bigger than life Bay Bridge looming over the Embarcadero piers. It was almost five and the train station was near. Yes, yes!! The trip was done.

A triumphal beer while waiting for the train!!! (picture taken by biz guy from Philippines)

Last evening was Truckee Thursday. The first in the series of arts and crafts and farmer’s markets for the summer season. Being the first, there was probably more excitement than the remainder would bring. The locals and what tourists happened in the area strolled through the maze of booths on sequestered main street. It was a jolly affair. Even the police rode their bicycles through having as much fun as the rest.

But, this morning it was all over.The locals to their homes and Friday activities and the tourists probably to Tahoe, Reno or points beyond. I gazed down main street. What a lovely sight from my sheltered second floor balcony.

 I had gotten up a number of times in the middle of the night with the blasts of the train’s air horns. It was exciting to stand and look at the passing train just fifty feet beyond. The night air had been cool and pleasant.There were the flashing lights, swinging signs and traffic barriers coming down. I could feel the rumble resonate thought the hotel timbers. There was the grinding of the wheels on steel and another blast of the horn. One train had ninety six cars. Then a rush of air and a surreal suspension of all sounds.  And there I was with jeans half unbuttoned and tee shirt and bare feet mesmerized by the chugging cars lumbering down the tracks. It all fit in the ambiance of the hotel. The trains every hours or so, the rough and tumble buildings along main street, the rugged mountains on all sides and the rushing Truckee river. Yes, it was easy to be transported to the early days of rail and stagecoach and river crossings and snows and wagon roads.

I wanted coffee but I kept leaning on the railing and looking out on main street. It was all over. The excitement of last evening. Just like the last chapters of Hemingway in the Sun Also Rises. Back to the sleepy town. The sign post said Donner Pass Road and Bridge St. Hmmm. That’s where I was yesterday. Up Donner Summit. I lifted my gaze above the tracks to the snow caps beyond. Yep…I had done it. Ridden my bicycle up the summit to Soda Springs. And back down around Donner Lake to Highway 89 and Tahoe City and completed the loop to Brockway and back to the Truckee Hotel. It had been an adventure to remember. I stopped at the River Ranch for lunch and dangled my legs over the wall as I watched rafters and kayakers ending their ride from Tahoe City while waiting for my lunch. Yes…it was much like the fishing trip with all the zest and sportsmanship of Hemingway’s book at Burguete. Just the beautiful parts though. Not the debauchery and ugliness.

I walked down the steps with my Justin cowboy boots resounding throughout. It was a western stairway, a bit rough but perfect for the Truckee Hotel. I imagined Hop-Sing perhaps rushing to the kitchen for the morning meal or even my old tv pal, Paladin from Have Gun Will Travel out on one of his capers from San Francisco. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt and cowboy boots I fit the scene too! I greeted the friendly receptionist and she handed me the corrected invoice with another apology.

I walked across Bridge Street to the broad sidewalks adorned with flowers on the street side. There was a couple up ahead looking over the Squeeze-Inn breakfast menu. I peeked in the windows of the American Bar right on the corner. What a great name for a  pioneer western town. I could see signs for the Sierra Tavern, Wagon Wheel a real estate office, some clothes stores and the rail terminal across the street. There was no Starbucks…Hmmmm. Interesting and refreshing all at the same time. There were no recognizable chain names to be seen. Coffee And….an old time coffee shop. I remember it from the eighties. Chuck and I stopped here for breakfast on our way to play Tahoe Donner Golf Course up the street. Nothing had changed…a vitrine of pastries by the cash register to the left and the small seating area in front of the kitchen. “I’ll have a coffee black and a plain croissant” I said to the smiling, middle aged waitress behind the register. She turned and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup and handed it to me. No croissants just those in there” as she pointed to the rough hewn vitrine filled with bear claws, cinnamon rings and other sugary things. “Hmmm, the coffee will do. Thank you.” With a smile on my face and coffee in one hand I leaned into the door and mumbled wryly, “None of that frog stuff in here. Just Amerkin. Good old fashion bear claws. And smiled some more and laughed…it all fit.

And here is the original version written from the ambiance of the Truckee Hotel. A reception room with all the look and feel of the pioneer days and the old west!

Waking Up in Truckee

Last night was ‘Truckee Thursday’. It brought tourists and mountain locals to main street. The town was lively, filled with music and dining and drinking establishments busy. But…this morning was a Hemingway description of a town after the fiesta. The sidewalks were deserted albeit a few locals and shop owners. Delivery trucks with beer and restaurant stuffs were parked in front. The tin rattle of their roller doors could be heard opening and closing. There was the occasional bellow of the trains too. But, most notable was the air. Cool, clean, soothing to take deep in your lungs. It felt wholesome.

I walked down the broad sidewalks and I, well….I fit the environment with my jeans and Justin cowboy boots. Stopped to get some coffee and croissant but could only muster the coffee. There was a small vitrine with bear claws and sugary pastries but…No Croissants! Back on the sidewalk I laughed. None of that Frog stuff here. No sir!! Just plain ‘mercan grub’. It made me laugh. It fit. I loved it!

The Cycling Tuscan

Need to Buy, Sell or Lease Silicon Valley Real Estate?

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FOUR DAYS OF PURE FUN AND ADVENTURE. ARRIVAL AT TAHOE.. BICYCLING AROUND THE LAKE. EXPLORING SOUTH SHORE OVER THE PIONEER TRAIL TO MYERS AND LUTHER PASS. HI-TEK ROUND OF GOLF AT APPLE MOUNTAIN. A PERFECT TRIP!!

 

If ever you are fortunate enough to ride east on U.S. Highway 50 beyond Sacramento towards Lake Tahoe stop at Strawberry, at the lodge(http://strawberrylodge.com/) It’s a roadhouse with a history that dates back to 1865. It’s had its ups and downs over the years. Open, closed and open again. But if you have a sense of history, just stop and look at the old photos on the walls. They tell the story. The Pony Express. The local color. The snow storms. You can feel the stories oozing out of the walls. I would have liked to stop for a wine and sandwich but the weather was testy and thought better of it as the winding Echo Summit lay before me. Yes, the weather came in spurts. Torrential downpour that forced me to slow and peer carefully to discern the road. Then there was a momentary and energetic hail storm. And there I was with my VW Beetle laden with bicycle stuff and golf stuff and head filled with exciting sports’ adventures planned over the next couple of days. But as quickly as the tempests came, they vanished. And the sun shone. And…with the sun I focused on pleasant thoughts…where to dine tonight. Villa Roma, perhaps! Yes, we had good times there with Patrick and the boys in the old days. Old memories brought smiles to my face. But first maybe a nice, expensive glass of wine. At Edgewood Country Club on the south shore of the lake. Yes! That’s it. Wine at Edgewood and dinner at Tep’s Villa Roma. How easy it is to formulate plans when one travels by himself and is content with that.

A momentary stop at Echo Summit with view of South Shore Airport and the Lake Tahoe Basin.

 In short order I made Howard Johnson’s South Shore my headquarters. Stowed all my gear in the ground floor room. A room which was clean and basic and perfect for this athletic jaunt. I set out for Stateline to explore. I have not been here for some years, perhaps ten, and wanted to see the familiar sights. There was Harrah’s and Harvey’s and the Horizon beyond. Drove towards the shore behind the casinos and noted the block of construction fenced off and seemingly abandoned. The area still had magic though. The majestic Ponderasa pines and lush grasses, the stately entrance to Edgewood and the familiar narrow road winding through the front nine revealing the rustic club house set against the lakeshore. On occasion it feels good to step into luxury. The grounds are meticulously kept. The vistas are unique. There is stillness and solitude. I walk up the granite steps and enter the foyer. A wedding was happening. I enter and inquire at the bar for a glass of cabernet. I put a twenty down and would be surprised  if there was change. I left the three dollars for a tip. There was music  and a low hum of pleasant conversation. I sat amongst the guests and absorbed the scene. I loved being here. The wine was good. Called my friend, Roy trying to cajole him into an improptu trip to what I knew to be one of his favorite courses.

“Roy”. I said, “I’m overlooking the eighteenth green at Edgewood and sipping a twenty dollar glass of wine and I love it. Wish you could come up so tha we could play this great course.”

“Louie, Louie”…How you doing. And he’s laughing. ” I wish I could. Gotta be in LA tomorrow…..

So, I move to the patio and chat with the waitstaff and absorb the view towards the 18th green. Last time there I missed the fifteen footer for a birdie. And the wind was howling. On the seventeenth I aimed over the lake for windage as my six iron shot rode the wind back to the center of the green.

 And Gurny Samson, my pal from the Lockheed days. The man with the most bizarre swing. Gurny was cross handed and spread his legs the widest and bent over the ball with his head pointed up. It was not really a swing…but  a sort of slow motion wind-up and mad lurch for the ball which carried him off both feet. He was a marvel to see. But what’s most bizarre is his two hundred yard drives with slight fade found the middle of the fairway. The last we played here was many years ago in a tournament. There were two dozen or so eople about the first tee and Gurny takes the tee. As he assumed his posture there was a silence…not knowing whether it be a spoof or not. Then he hit his two hundred yarder with his lurch and the crowd erupted with ahs, laughter and applause. That’s what I see through the flickering flames as I gaze over the first hole.

SOUTH LAKE TAHOE AMBIANCE

I walked around the casinos and the grounds. All the features and places were recognizable. The edges somewhat tarnished, though. There was no sparkle in the once regal Harrah’s lobby. The casino floor at the Horizon was devoid of gambling tables. An empty cavern. Harvey’s was tattered too. The clientele was older and poorly dressed. No longer were there glitchy convenience restaurants in nooks of the casinos. Just the catch all coffee shop with worn tables and frayed carpeting. At one time all the dealers were young college girls with up-beat attitudes. Now the tables were commanded by lissome sexagenarians.  I continued to survey all but with some sense of sad reminiscence. How it all used to be. Nothing ever stays the same.  

 

My training has been in business. Economics. Way back when…in college campus….one of the first names that attracted my attention was Milton Friedman. He was one of the few economists that I could either understand and more importantly, the only one who made any sense. He believed in free market capitalism because it focused on the individual. Whenever there are impediments to free markets whether they be from monopolistic forces of big government, market inefficiencies would result. People voted with their dollars and markets would prosper or diminish based on those results. Government was there to protect peoples’ god given rights..period. Not to interfere with the workings of the markets.

The most interesting restaurant I visited was Rojo’s(http://www.rojostahoe.com/aboutus.html) on the main drag on the California side. It’s a rustic granite and old woods type of rib joint with cozy bar. It’s ambiance spoke resortish old Lake Tahoe. Its history talks about training camp of the Schmelling-Baer fight in the thirties. The other restaurants, Villa Roma, coffee shops at Harrah’s and other coffee shops were drab, ordinary and indicative of a decaying market. So, to Rojo’s I would go to have drinks and dinner and to chat with the bartenders and clientele. The square block of construction I had seen next to Harvey’s….well, that was a project discontinued. All the investors pulled out, the bartender said. The Horizon’s has lost its gambling license. And…the casinos are hurting big time. The skiing season bring in people but gaming is in decline and casinos are hurting. It’s been the result of the Indian Casinos on the California side. The biggest hit was Red Hawk Casino in Placerville.  Folks no longer come up to gamble…just the lake and skiing. And…as a result we’re all hurting, the bartender continues as she shrugs.

But ‘Uncle Miltie’ would call this creative destruction. This area will continue to diminish and be dog eared till some bright guy comes up with an idea. A Steve Wynn type. Someone who will see the magnificence of the lake and the sports’ venues and combine a product package which will take this location to the next level. Many of us ‘sportsters’ have gravitated to other locations. Such as Reno or North Shore. Why? Well….there are more choices and better deals. The number of golf courses have multiplied in these areas while in South Shore there is only Edgewood and Tahoe Country Club in Myers. And…Edgewood is priced in the stratosphere. All the gaming hotels in Reno have been luxuriously remodeled. In short order the market has moved to better deals. And….South Shore will have to answer the challenge over time. It’ll be interesting to see what happens.

 THE TOUR AROUND THE LAKE

It’s Sunday morning 9/11. I’m suiting up for my ride and glancing out my window for any riders beginning the tour. It’s a bit overcast but doesn’t feel ominous of foul weather. I wear warm gear just in case. The 72 mile route around the lake will have several decent climbs but nothing to cause me great concern. There is a stretch at Emerald Bay with a 10.5% incline and a long ascent from Incline Village to Spooner Summit on the Navada side. My goal is to enjoy the ride, the scenery and take good photos. There will be no rushing of racing.

The brightly clad riders begin to stream by. First one, then a pack and some more singles. It’s the ninth annual Tour De Tahoe, a charity event for the diabetes foundation. There will be around two thousand riders participating. I take my place and quickly fall into a fifteen mile per hour rhythm. There seems to be riders of all types. Couples, groups of friends, young and old. Mostly dressed in proper cycling attire. The ones with just shorts and jersey seem a bit cold. I’m comfortable in my long riding pants and windbreaker sporting #649.

 Well organized rest-stops provide an opportunity to meet fellow riders and stock up on energy bars, fruits and drinks. I was chatting with the owners of  one of these stepper bicycles to get their point of view. They said that uphill was no problem but the descents were a bit hairy. I could not imagine doing the entire seventy two miles standing up and pedaling all the way. But they were up-beat guys and am sure that they negotiated the day with lots of fun.

The climb begins. It will not be a long ascent but I’m aware of the steep portion. I find a group of good riders and we proceed up the slope in good rhythm. There is a fellow ahead of me with ursine profile who provides us all with bold commentary along the way. He’s got a sense of humor and we all join in the comradery. He talks to his inner pain and dismisses  it with casual indifference as we negotiate one of the many summits of the day. I will be hearing his voice on and off all day long. 

Wow! A clump of scotch broom finds a crevice amidst the granite to cling to life. And…in all my trips to the Tahoe and Reno areas I’ve grown fond of this thistly, beautiful and hearty bit of vegetation. It doesn’t smell so good but it grows in places where life seems impossible. It has pliable stalks of muted  and weather beaten silvery green color. And…it’s burst of a mustard yellow stirred by fresh mountain air. . It kind of says…I endure the pain and find beauty in it…I survive and thrive. Somewhat the same beauty that a bicycle rider finds in conquering the pain of a steep ascent and finding beauty in it all.

 

Just over the rise from the rest stop is Inspiration Point overlooking Emerald Bay. A moment of beauty frozen in time.

And more contrast with granite rising to the sky.

There was Meeks Bay and Sugar Pine and Homewood and Tahoe City. Those were peaceful stretches of road adjacent to the lake. It was clear and the morning rays would filter through the stands of pines partitioning us from the placid water. There were clusters of homes and country stores and occasional shopping areas. Some folks sat on patio chairs roadside waiving and cheering us on as they drank their morning coffee. One rider up ahead had some sort of mechanical and I caught a homeowner crossing the street with pump in hand ready to help. The riders and their numbers about me were now familiar and we would echelon forward and back in random fashion. It was all somewhat surreal as in a pageant….dreamy, somewhat fuzzy and ever so pleasant.

I crossed the Truckee River by Tahoe City where 89 branched along the river to Truckee and 28 followed the familiar shoreline through the communities of North Shore. Bacchi’s Restaurant is close by. Hidden on a quiet street just a block off the lake. It’s a family style restaurant with a good bar. We enjoyed it many times over the decades with our family and golf buddies.  http://www.tahoesbest.com/Restaurants/bacchis_menu.htm  On one of our visits we were eating late. Tables began to desappear one by one. Eventuallty there was just us and an empty dining room. Yep…it was the end of the season and we were the last diners.

 

I had wanted to take more pictures along the way. But…the rhythm…the zone. One mile into the next. Stop for a quiet lunch seated on a beach wall overlooking King’s Beach and picking out points along the shoreline. We’re back at stateline and the mansions of Lakeshore Drive in Incline Village stream-by. Many are for sale though the signs are terribly small. Teams of residents are stationed at every stop and require all riders to come to complete halt. We used to have a condo here, by the Hyatt and am now rather sorry that we sold it. Ah, but life goes on and at times it was a pain. I smile to myself and think…we still have a place here….the Hyatt Hotel…we can stay anytime. The restaurant across the Hyatt on the beach has always been a treat. It used to be Hugo’s where I first discovered wonderful duck en roti. They had a rotisserie built right in the dining room wall. Now, of course, that restaurant is gone only to be replaced by Lone Eagle’s Grill. http://loneeaglegrille.com/  It’s modern, light , bright with  splendid view of the lake. The food is good. But…the ambiance…absolutely not. Can’t reproduce that feeling of sitting low at the little bar of Hugo’s looking out onto the sand and rippling waters and the Sierra peaks beyond.

 The long ascents of Spooner Summit takes its toll. Riders are spread and most are quiet. Head down maintaining the rhythm. The magnificent vistas of the lake are still there but fatigue has diminished their brilliance. From time to time we make reference to the pain and the hundred dollars we paid and laugh. One last rest stop at the summmit and we enter the busier Highway 50.

 The short tunnel hewn out of granite(Cave Rock) signals that the finish line is near. I glide without feeling, pain or effort. It’s been a ride of a lifetime and god willing I’ll do it again next year. Perhaps, then, I’ll remember to take more pictures.

OTHER SUMMITS

How many times have you said or thought, one of these days…one of these days I’m going to do this… or that. And a month, year, decade, a llifetime goes by and guess what…that dream never becomes reality. Well, this morning I felt as pleased as punch that I had grabbed life by the throat and did my ride around ‘big blue’. Yep! I lay in my bed, a bit achy, but filled with satisfaction as I reminisced the highlights of the prior day’s adventure.

Today, however, was another adventure to come. A ride to Kingsburry Grade over Dagget Pass down into the Nevada desert by Markleeville and back up Luther Pass to Myers, Pioneer Trail and back to South Shore. That was the plan. A plan that was interrupted by Cal-Trans and their road construction. After an envigorating ride along the south edge of the casinos I trudged up the beginnings of Kingsburry Grade. I was tired and felt a bid sluggish. There was a line of cars waiting for the Cal-Trans folks to do their thing. I pulled off to a 7-11 for a coffee and granola bar. I sat and considered my options. I looked down on the lake and just felt wonderful to be here. Tired…but wonderful.

 I leave the grind of Kingsbury Grade behind and float effortlessly along the lake’s edge. It’s a vacation scene. Summery even when not summer. The clarity of the alpine water is amazingly refreshing. And… the blueness of the lake a restful contrast to the rugged mountains.

 Beyond the traffic of Lake Tahoe Boulevard I take Carson Avenue and cruise through old Tahoe. The cabins intermixed with newer homes. Mostly vacation residences. Or so they seem. Cars are older and all is rather weathered. Black Bart Avenue catches my imagination as the name fits the countryside. I find the Pioneer Trail. It’s a broad connector type of road with generous bicycle lanes. Every trip reveals a surprise…the surprise that goes beyond the expected and renders joy. The Pioneer Trail is such a find. A broad road. A winding road. A road with lengthy inclines but not strenuous. Pine trees to the left and right but not so thick as to hide the forest’s detail. Patches of ferns or scotch broom are revealed in sun splashed meadows. Hearty grasses bask in the sunshine and sway in the gentle mountain breeze. I cross Trout Creek and think of my pal Dale. He’s a great fisherman and would love it here. I am truly happy as I appreciate the setting and the beauty and feel the sun on my back. It’s just great to be alive.

After a dozen or so miles of pure pleasure I arrive at U.S. 50 and Meyers. The peacefullness coccooned by the Pioneer Trail halts and I re-enter the quick pace of folks going places. Meyers used to be a stagecoach stop and Pony Express Station in the nineteenth century. Still has that feel of a roadhouse. There’s a couple of golf courses here that I’ve yet to play. They are lush, set in  alpine meadows with rushing creeks and pine trees. Country stores, roadside restaurants and some homes. I wonder who would live here and what do they do for a living.

I stop for lunch at one of the coffee shops and chat with the folks. One of the waitresses has just moved here from Walnut Creek in the Bay Area and is trying life on her own with her boy friend. Life away from the parents. Rent is cheap here, she says.

 

Luther Pass

When you are a cycling aficionado conquering summits are badges of honor. They are accomplishments. Prowess of sorts. Thus far I have some good ones to my credit. Mt. Rose, Geiger Summit, Donner Pass from the California side, Spooner Summit, Passes over the Santa Rita  Mountains along Highway 1 and today one more will be added, Luther Pass. From U. S. 50 I take highway 89 towards Markleeville and begin the long and steady climb. After a couple of miles there are my pals, the Clatrans guys. We wait for about a half hour for our caravan to be allowed through. The worker is friendly and tells me about Old Truckee Road which runds parallel to 89 along the creek. There is no traffic there.  I resume my climb and it’s kind of a grind as the grade is steady and there are no flat rest stretches. But the scenery is beautiful and once at the top there is a spectacular high meadow offering broad vistas against the peaks.

 And….a restfull meadow at the summit!

  

I bid my newfound pals at Howard Johnson’s farewell the next morning. It was a comfortable and affordable hotel for such a sport outing. I would arrive at Apple Hill Golf Course,  near Placerville  in short order and would avail myself of the lunch and golf special. It was hot and I loved it. I was sporting my brand new Garmin golf watch which gave me the distances to each green via GPS. What and invention. Along the way I met two fellows who were having a practice round for next day’s tournament. They thought that I was quite the hi-tek guy from Silicon Valley sporting such a watch. I ended up shooting an 81.

In life there is no perfection. But….this trip was as close as it gets to the mark!

The Cycling Tuscan

Need to Buy, Sell or Lease Silicon Valley Real Estate?

Dalmatian Realty

of

Silicon Valley

Luciano J. Ercolini, Broker/Owner

Landlord & Entrepreneur since 1977***** Realtor since 2000***** Broker/Owner since 2004

 

STOPS AT AUBURN, DONNER SUMMIT AND TRUCKEE AND THEN A BICYCLE RIDE FROM RENO TO VIRGINIA CITY, CARSON CITY AND BACK THROUGH THE EXPANSIVE CARSON VALLEY!!

By now I am a veteran at packing and planning for these mini vacations. A list is generated gradually the prior week. It’s on my computer table where I work. Items are added as they enter my consciousness. At departure my list is complete without effort and the packing is dispatched in short order. The back deck of my VW Beetle is layered with related items: the golf stuff, the bicycling stuff, the personal items and the clothes bag. When I arrive at my hotel I check my bags and stuff with the bellman, change into my bicycling clothes, valet my car and I’m off into the desert for a day ride. A day of adventure with the excitement of a school-child free on the first day of summer vacation. I scan the purple hues and silvery muted shades of the desert floor. The sparsely vegetated and rugged mountains to the east and the snow caps separating the Carson Valley from the verdant jewel beyond-The Tahoe Basin.

My day began at 4am from the heart of Silicon Valley. I am content and peaceful and filled with excitement of the adventure ahead. Living in Silicon Valley and having the luxury of flexible schedules is the best of all worlds. The roads are deserted. Soon I see the windmill silhouettes of Altamont beyond Livermore. It’s still pretty dark. I bolster myself with a hot cup of coffee from Mickey D’s in the Central Valley just outside of Sacramento. My mind goes back in time. To the Gold Rush era of the 49’ers. It was the rough and tumble adventurers and seekers of wealth who traveled these roads. Some died. Few became fabulously wealthy. Most disappeared into the landscape as the lust for fortune waned.
I stop at Auburn for a short visit. It always delights me. Auburn is an icon of the region and the gold mining and railroad era. The light is perfect to both appreciate the architecture and take some fotos.

Perhapts this foto captures all. The trestle birdge  crosses Highway 80 framing the goldminer to the entrance of town. These days Auburn is a road stop for vacationers on the way to Tahoe and back to the Bay Area. But…way back when it was men, visionaries…like Theodore Dehone Judah. I love that name. Perhaps it’s my first home in America, in the Sunset Distrct of San Francisco. We lived on 44th Avenue and Judah Street. For a long time I thought that to be a strange name for a street of San Francisco. But… a time ago I began to read of the railroad history of California. The Big Four…Stanford, Huntington, Crocker and Hopkins. But wait, there was also the catalyst figure who set all in motion, Theodore Dehone Judah. He was the one who traveled the streets of Sacramento talking to all who would listen about his idea of the trans-Sierra railroad. He traveled the rocky ledges of the snow capped Sierras on his dime to scout and do rough engineering surveys. Up the road in Dutch Flat he met Dr. Strong, a pharmacist, who joined forces with Ted do the groundwork. This is what I see this fine morning as I walk the rickety sidewalks of the fragile buildings of Auburn. It is a rich history and I’m delighted to be able to appreciate it.

Spectacular view of Donner Lake from Donner Summit

Granite! This is what the Donner Party and Teddy Judah faced to achieve their objectives. One cannot realize the magnitude of these challenges. Up close and personal. I bicycled this road some in the late 80’s from the California side….but the true majesty and challenge is from the Nevada side. It’s on my agenda and soon!

The breathtaking beauty of the Sierra Mountain passes enjoyed on a beautiful morning on the way to the Reno Desert. The straight line in the background is the railroad engineered by Judah and built by the ‘Big Four’: Leland Stanford, Colis B. Huntinton, Mark Hopkins and Charles Crocker of the Cental Pacific Railroad.

These trips to the Sierras had their origin in the 1970’s. I would organize outings for my customers in the then nascent Silicon Valley. We would rent a house in South Shore or North or stay in one of the Reno Hotels frolicking in the evenings around the casinos and golfing in the daytime. The outings were popular and continued through the 90’s when  I found myself with a dinner house in Sonoma County at the gateway to the ‘Wine Country’. My good friend, Roy, continued the tradition at the beginning and end of the summer season when I returned to Silicon Valley.  Over the years we added Truckee, and Graeagle in Plumas County on the Feather River and Carson City. My memory is filled with a wonderful kaleidescope of cities, golf courses, friends…many now dead, restaurants, hilarious antics….but most of all, the wonderul bond of friendship with dear amigos sharing and enjoying life.

Bicycling just added to my enjoyment. I enrichened my experince with vistas of Lake Tahoe while climbing up Mt. Rose, the majestic mauntains on either side of Carson Valley, all the new communities hidden in micro vales to the north of Reno, the spectacular and lush Feather River environs. The train museum, best in the west, at Portola. World renouned hang-gliding site to the south of Washoe Lake just north of Carson City. The ride up the old Comstock Road to Virginia City. The Bucket of Blood Saloon. The ghost mining towns of Silver City and Gold Hill. The vastness and solitude of desert.

And…one last stop…Truckee

 Truckee is about the railroad, about the lumber trade, about gold and silver and about tourism to Tahoe and points north, Plumas County and east to Reno. It’s a wonderfully preserved town having resisted over the years the temptation of development and big money tourism. By just walking along the rails and main street and along the river and closely looking at the vinatge buildings one is easily transported back to the era of its roots.

The Truckee Hotel…an icon since the mid nineteenth century. A stagecoach stop servicing the Tahoe area and Plumas County to the north before the arrival of train service. A stagecoach ride to Tahoe City would take two and a half hours. Now a colorful resting spot for mountain travelers.

 Main Street

River Inn on the Truckee River

Truckee River on it’s way to the Reno desert.

Rough ‘n tumble back streets.

And….I arrive at my oasis in the desert…The Peppermill, Reno.

I’m now on the city streets of Reno riding south. It’s a bright summer day but the air is crisp. The roads are familiar as this ride is the latest in my annual series. It’s comforting to ride familiar roads and Double R Ranch Road takes me by new housing developments and shopping centers with many stores not yet opened. The road is wide with generous bike lanes and broad sidewalks adorned with desert vegetation. The southeast provides views of my ride up Geiger Pass; beyond the Carson Valley to the southwest are the majestic Sierras looming over the desert valley with snow caps.The air is wonderfully clear, the colors are sharp and the vistas are big. It’s  surreal with such broad expanses seen vividly.

 This perhaps expresses all best! One tiny speck of a bicycle rider surveying this grand and expansive vista with definiton and color. Mt. Rose in the distance just a hop from the yet more spectacular Lake Tahoe.

Desertscape to the south of Reno. The grasses, brambles and purple hues of the desert sage.

 

Well! Here we go, up the Geiger Summit. The old Comstock Road to Virginia City. This, if you are an old television buff of the sixties may remember, is the same road that the Cartrights, ‘Lil” Joe, Hoss, Adam and father Ben would travel to Virginia City and back to the Ponderosa on North Shore Lake Tahoe to do the shopping for their chinese cook, Hop Sing. This is what I see as I ride up these slopes with vistas of the Reno cityscape behind and the dry, dusty slopes with sparse vegetation.

A marker commemorating this historic highway. The traffic to and from Virginia City was done by freight wagons up and down these slopes with cargo of gold and silver and timber and fancy stuff from San Francisco.

It’s always a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. The conquest of another summit.

The touristy bustle of Virginia City! I love the buildings, a legacy of the etherial wealth created during the silver rush.

  And…more tourists!

The Bucket of Blood Saloon. Just for the tang of it….I stopped at the bar and ordered a sasparilla. Sat right next to some bikers doing shots and beer. Variety is the spice!!

On the way out on the south end of town is the Fourth Ward School. Built during the height of the silver era wealth to service the fastly growing local population. Now a museum. From here I continue south towards Highway 50 and Carson City. I travel beautifully desolate desert roads with broad vistas nuanced by the pruplish hue of desert sage and other thistly bushes.

 The ghost towns south of Virginia City. Gold hill sported as many as 8,000 inhabitants in its heyday. Now but a few hundred remain. Now the hotel is a popular tourist stop which I’ve yet to enjoy. Next trip!!

 Silver City as seen from Devil’s Gate. This was a handy setting for highwaymen to relieve travelers of their valuables.

 To the south of the ghost towns and before highway 50 and Carson City for lunch. Am I suffering from hunger and thirst? Am I halucinating??

 The lush Carson Valley as seen from the foot of the Sierras. The foothils in the distance provide lift for the desert winds and the location has become a world renouned haven for hang gliders.. On any given day one can see those fragile contraptions spiraling upwards becoming a speck of color in the azure sky.

The bicycling loop was 82 miles. Absolutely marvellous! Capped with three days of golf. Somerset Country Club, Lakeridge and Red Hawk Golf Courses. And…as always the best time to leave is when you are still having a great time. Looking forward to the next trip already.

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Need to Buy, Sell or Lease Silicon Valley Real Estate?

Dalmatian Realty of Silicon Valley

Luciano J. Ercolini, Broker/Owner

Landlord & Entrepreneur since 1977***** Realtor since 2000***** Broker/Owner since 2004

‘Tis our semiannual migration to the Sierras. By now it’s a must, a primal necessity. It’s all about friendship, the beauty of the Sierras and the mountain streams, broad grassy meadows, rustic architecture, the scent of pines and mountain flowers…ah! ehr! Oh yeah….golf, golf and more golf. At times it seems that we’re in a cathedral as the name of god is being invoked continuously as errant shots penetrate the formerly undisturbed ecosystems. But then we have a beer or two and  perhaps a ‘vokka’ or some such potion stowed in the recesses of the golf bag. And the dinners with our ‘one armed’ chef, Artie, who produces breakfasts, and dinners around our homey table. It’s lay back and family style. There is our home away from home, The Mohawk Tavern. Drunk or not….it doesn’t matter…the capricious floor gives you a whooz! Then there are the stories of our buddies no longer with us…but they’re always with us…Tommy and Bruce and Eddie Kimsey and others who were part of the history of this group begun in the 70’s. To enjoy our moment in the sun and friendship and happiness as life goes by.

Trip taken September 10 thru 14, 2010

The Group: Roy, Artie, Steve, Leonard, Greg, Luciano,

Rendezvous on Sunday at the Mohawk Tavern!

The Town!

Mohawk Valley!

Sulphur Springs at Clio. A stagecoach stop and hotel serving the route from Truckee to Quincy!

Middle fork of the Feather River in all its splendor!

The Dragon….a bit seedy these days!

Train museum at Portola!

Luciano was there, at the museum!

The kitchen crew preparing for dinner. Steve and the ‘one armed bandit’.

Greg and Leonard checking out the course!

Getting Ready!

Our Leader!

Artie getting the local scoop. Should I play this course right handed or left????

Mountain flowers at Grizzley!

Hmmm..Let’s see….limber up….go to the first tee…keep my head down….hit it 300 yards. I love this game!!

Hold on! I know that brandy is here somewhere.

What great balance! Good drive, Leonard.

See! 300 yards. I love this game.

Anybody see where that went!

Roy, don’t try this at home. It could hurt you!

Group Picture! Grizzley, Sept. 13, 2010

Group Picture. Grizzley, Sept. 13, 2010!

Fellas, it was a great time. Looking forward to our Reno trip in the spring already.

Luciano, Group Photographer & Scribe

Need to Buy, Sell or Lease Silicon Valley Real Estate?

Dalmatian Realty of Silicon Valley

Luciano J. Ercolini, Broker/Owner

Landlord & Entrepreneur since 1977***** Realtor since 2000***** Broker/Owner since 2004

 

Three day adventure taken late April, 2010 to Los Gatos, Aptos, Seascape, Pajaro, Watsonville, Moss Landing, Monterey, formerly Ft. Ord, Salinas, San Juan Grade to San Juan Bautista, Hollister and back home to Sunnyvale.

Richie and I were room mates at the University of Santa Clara. We shared a sixth floor room at Ben Swig Hall, ate at the Cafeteria across the way and walked to our classes in the small campus with El Camino Real  running through it.  In the spring  on warm days we would head over the summit to Santa Cruz for a day at the beach. Actually, our beach of choice was Seascape with the iconic cement boat pier and the high bluffs above. We would always take our books with good intentions but more often than not the books were there to assuage our conscience. We would ride in the coolness of the morning and breakfast at one of the homey cafes along frontage roads off of Highway One, run along the beach and play football, talk about our futures and the girls, especially the ones that gave us the ‘brown helmet’. We would be all tan…it was cool to be tan way back then…and unaware as to the health risks. And.. ride back in the late afternoon listening to Mamas & Papas, Jefferson Airplane and Bob Dylan in time for dinner with the rest of the fellows. They were having the ‘Summer of Love’ up in The Haight but it all went by unnoticed as we were cocooned in the very conservative Jesuit campus. We had a tough time getting dates…or, if the truth be told, any girl to talk to us.

To this day, some forty plus years later, the idea of  traveling over the summit of the Santa Cruz mountains to the Santa Cruz and Monterey area brings on a warm glow, a smile to my face and puts my thoughts in a happy place. Once every week or two I pack up with my golf gear, turn up the music a bit and head over the hill for a day of golf and joy in the coastal sunshine with folks I’ve never met and probably never see again. But today it’s just me and my bike and a small bag on the rack and most of all good weather and an open road ahead…a road  never before traveled.

Los Gatos, Summit & Aptos

Los Gatos is the ‘bad boy’ of Silicon Valley. At the southern extremity of the valley with the Santa Cruz Mountains looming just above it is an eclectic blend of the upwardly mobile gentry and the rough and tumble mountain culture. There is a hint of ‘Harley and leathers’ with the long standing saloons of Carry Nations and The Black Watch on Santa Cruz Avenue. It’s streets are bejeweled with iconic Victorians and art deco structures; the parking is hidden one street behind where the once all important railroad used to run and the pedestrians command the sidewalks and central square at Santa Cruz Avenue and Main. It’s shops are distinctive and non-corporate and the restaurants have a character all their own.

I ride coffee-less this early, sunny morning on the bicycle path along Lawrence Expressway. It runs along Calabazas Creek meandering though city planted vegetation of Mexican sages, lavendar and other fine greenery to a stretch along the expressway and onto Quito Road, a road which has managed to retain a sense of wildness even though dotted with multi-million dollar homes.

I arrive at the Boulanger on the central square. At one corner of the square is a run of rails commemorating the train station once  just ahead through the redwood trees. The South Pacific Coast Railroad ran through here. That was the narrow gauge, steam powered line which first connected Santa Cruz, the cities of the south and east bay to Alameda and then by ferry boat to San Francisco.

Banditos once roamed the nearby mountains. I order a coffee and croissant and sit at a window table looking onto the square. “Painless Parker’, the sidewalk dentist magnate walked these streets. The pump entrepreneur who came to found FMC settled here. I sip on the hot Kona Blend and munch the pastry and watch the people stroll. Heralded for its fine weather the city became a center for the infirmed. Down the street is the Toll House Hotel and

have always wondered. The name?? Well, one time a toll road to Santa Cruz began there. Ah, now it makes sense. There is the original toll house nearby….I’ve yet to find it. And…yes, even ‘sweet Melanie’ of Gone With The Wind was a permanent resident. How cool is that?

Just over the freeway I catch the Los Gatos Path, a dirt path leading to Lexington Reservoir and roads south. The ride up the face of the dam is seemingly tame but once I pedal the final ascent I’m gasping for air. I gaze at the calm surface as I regain my composure. The waters hide the onetime towns of Lexington and Alma. Just to my left is a large sign warning hikers and cyclists about mountain  lions and survival instructions in case of an encounter. Well!! That’s a sobering thought. But it was the roar of these wild beasts that motivated the original settlers to build here. If the lions liked it here, then there must be plenty of water…so they settled… and hence the name…Arroyo de Los Gatos. Just across the highway from here is the Cat’s Restaurant. To my mind it captures the spirit of Los Gatos.

I ride along the east shore of the reservoir and a third way up the opposite side to climb to Old Santa Cruz Highway. Serene coves, ascents through oak clusters, shafts of morning sunlight, thickets of redwoods, patches of flowering sweet peas, giant ferns and clover, vistas of the waters and the rising bluish outline of the summit to the south provide a fascinating kaleidoscope to imprint on the memory. I encounter no cars. There are many homes for sale…homes nestled in the thick vegetation. I pass Mt. Charlie Road…a road named after the early settler of Los Gatos Mountains who brought his family from gold mining areas to start a farm and orchard. The climb is steady and not bothersome.  I come to a clearing and a bend where there is a stained glass window shop. It’s strange. It’s open but no one is around. It’s the remnants of Holy City, founded by ‘Father Riker’, the cultish wackadoo. It’s all eerie.

I arrive at Summit Road about 1,800ft. in elevation, eat a banana and call Patricia who is perpetually worried when I go on these cycling adventures. So, I call often and give her progress reports.

An upscale market along Summit Road with deli, butcher shop  and all goodies along with coffees and nice deck for locals to gather. I had a coffee and listened to a group of ladies with the morning chatter. Local color and mountain culture, you know!

I proceed south onto San Jose-Soquel Road which provides a breezy descent to the coast. At one time this road and the route along Highway 17, Patchen Pass,  were routes for overland stagecoach travel to Santa Cruz. Competing companies used these roads and engaged in fare wars. $3 per person was the going rate but the  fares got down to as low as $1 before the railroad arrived to the area.

I followed a group of riders going about 20mph, effortlessly enjoying the descent and  scenery and arriving in Soquel refreshed.

The Coast, Farms & Slough

Once over the hill everything is different! The hectic pace, the rushed traffic, the gate of pedestrians, the glitch of the shops, the smells and sounds… and yes, the perception…all seems muted and blends into a peaceful, pleasant, harmonious canvas. I ride east along Soquel Boulevard through the Cabrillo College campus and I’m amazed as to its large size; It’s a relaxed campus scene with students in groups, laden with books, riding bikes and skate boards moving in all directions. The pastoral setting seems conducive to learning with gentle ocean breezes carrying the hint of eucalyptus trees nearby.

I head south towards the beach and find my way to Summer Road, a lovely wide road with rails on one side and Aptos Seascape Golf Course on the other. I’ve played the course many times but all looks different from this perspective. Tidy neighborhoods with low lying homes in muted ocean colors of grays and blues and large picture windows face the rugged coastline of cypress and gnarled underbrush, patches of ocean and diminishing layers of fog. I travel peaceful roads, broad shouldered roads, roads with fine vistas and changing character. Summer Road leads to Seascape Road  to San Andreas Road and Elkhorn. There is a cyclist with bright colors just ahead and her bike is laden with goods. She looks fatigued as I pass her. I recognize that look and give her a greeting but she does not respond so I return to my thoughts. My beautiful thoughts! The farm areas of Watsonville stretch in all directions. Large valleys with dark, rich soils and coastal micro-climate are ideal for vegetables. The air becomes redolent with the thick, sweet scent of strawberries. Gangs of field workers with their vehicles parked close by cluster in groups, bent over, picking the fruit and hoisting the boxes onto trucks. The sides of the road are littered with clods from all the field activity as trucks rush on and off the fields to market. I gaze at the workers nearby all stooped over in the hot sun and wonder…could I ever do that if I had to. What a tough life it must be. A moment of sadness overcomes me as I ride slowly looking down at the clods, and weaving slowly between the big ones.

I rise from the fields and ride along the foothills heading south on Elkhorn Road. It’s classic California hill country. Oak trees with Spanish moss and thickets of bushes and greenery along the creeks; the road is narrow and winding. There is an occasional barn or such but it looks abandoned. I climb the switchbacks and see a sign for Elkhorn but see no town. Beyond another ascent and curve I find it….Elkhorn Slough. It’s an expansive vista, all low lying with waters and islands disappearing into the west. Formations of ducks and geese dot the sky, circling and and vanishing into the distant waters. There are kayak trips for bird watchers and nature lovers emanating from Moss Landing. Perhaps someday….with Patricia…what a good idea.

Lunch, lunch…it’s time for lunch. I know that Phil’s Restaurant in Moss Landing is my lunch place but as I look west from the foothills, the slough has disappeared and see no double stacks of the power plant. The Moss Landing Power Plant with its towering stacks can be seen from Monterey and Santa Cruz…but I could not see it. And…I was hungry. And…I rode some more…and more…then Dolan Road which headed west. A stiff breeze was my adversary but I was hungry. I could see the slough again to my right and there was a hawk, a large hawk on a fence post still as a sentinel….but I was hungry. The twin stacks were now visible…I was close.

 After 65 miles in the morning I was delighted to see Moss Landing and Phil’s Restaurant for a hearty bowl of red clam chowder and garlic bread. Fantastic!! I chatted with the friendly bartender, sipped on fine Cabernet and toasted the racy history of Moss Landing when it was an entry point for contraband booze during the prohibition era.

The Beach Bike Path

I traverse the estuary onto the narrow strip of town melding into the wide shouldered Highway 1 towards Castroville, ‘the artichoke capital of the world’. Those familiar with the geography will instantly agree to the appropriateness of the moniker. On our trips to Monterey,  Patricia would always require a stop into downtown Castroville for a plump bag of deep fried artichoke hearts at the Giant Artichoke, a vegetable stand and restaurant with a large artichoke icon in front reminiscent of the fast food places on Route 66 in the melodious ’60’s. The fields are jam packed with the thistly artichoke plants and trucks race down Molera Road towards market. The afternoon wind is brisk and the ride is not without effort even on flat terrain. But as I lift my head from thoughts and affix my gaze to the surroundings it’s an entry into another world. It’s a bucolic scene of expansive fields of muted green and gray of the chokes, a refreshing wind and mild scent of ocean nearby.

Just to the south of Castroville I join the Monterey Beach Bike Path which runs along the beach and adjacent to the railroad and Highway 1. It’s a magnificent experience. completely sheltered from all traffic with a vantage view of the beach and ocean. Ice plants cover much of the nearby sand and provides splashes of magenta and green over and beyond each mound. Heavy ocean breezes play with the sand and sudden gusts move me to the edges. On occasion the path is lost to the sand with my front wheel skidding and my weight lurching out of control…almost…a mild fall as I recline in the soft and warm sand tangled with handlebars and pedals. Marina and Sand City and Seaside and the former Fort Ord, now a residential community glide by to my left. I recollect my initial experiences at Fort Ord…yes…my ROTC days and ‘the survival, escape and evasion course’ somewhere beyond the dunes inland. Many years ago in the late sixties. Beyond Sand City the magical Monterey Peninsula comes into view jutting out to a point into the sunset. It’s always been our favorite and romantic getaway. Patricia and I…during our courtship….a courtship which lasted many years…would come to this peninsula and stay weekends in  Pacific Grove at the Sunset Motel cabin #6  just down the street from the Pacific Grove Gate of 17 Mile Drive. Sometimes I would play Spyglass Golf Course and she would ride along. Or, we would walk along the beach or explore the restaurants and many art galleries along the quaint back streets of Carmel, the aquarium or the nature paths just south of the bay. She liked to watch the sea otters swimming on their back cracking open abalone on their stomach with rocks. It’s pretty much of a magical geography which is entwined with our life and history. To this day it commands the aura of romance and adventure.

My phone rings. It’s Gina.

“Hi dad. Got your messages and just got back form my trip……

Gina always travels a lot with her husband-school related trips. They are both professors at the University of South Carolina. When she calls I never know where she’s at. Sometimes San Diego, sometimes Amsterdam, Pennsylvania, Michigan and on. But…today she’s home and ready to rest and tackle the house cleaning.

‘Hi Gina, I’m on the ride to Monterey that I had been planning…..’,  and we go into a conversation as I gaze onto the magnificent views with bike laid on the sand along the path. I lay out the road ahead and promise to call at interesting points along the way. These cell phones…marvelous….the world is with you at will wherever you go.

I descend the elevated path onto Monterey proper along Del Monte Drive leading to old town center.  I note a gaily merchandised bicycle shop on the busy street and make a mental note in the event of problems.  The back tire of my Giant bicycle is a bit flat. Inspection will be done later in the comfort of my hotel. The drive is busy with afternoon traffic and my path is equally congested with runners, and pedestrians and other bike riders. At the central park by the wharf I turn left on Washington St. to Munras and check into my pre-selected Howard Johnson’s.  It’s quaint. I have a clean room situated to the rear and very quiet. Just perfect to rest and ready for dinner.

Above…Old Monterey! A historic home, preserved and beautifully maintained along Munras Avenue in old town. After a long day’s ride of 90 miles I settled in my hotel up the street and enjoyed a relaxed dinner along the pedestrian center of Monterey.

A tad of a nap, a shower and fresh clothes make for a bright attitude and awakened sense of adventure to seek an interesting dinner area.  I glide down Munras’s  with a panorama of low buildings with ornate cornices and stucco work and wrought iron gates and grills and second story porticoes. There is residual warmth radiating from pavement. Buildings and alleyways paint the road with long shadows and white shafts of light from the west. White stucco with master craftsmanship proudly displaying spiraled columns, window pediments regal doorways and garden fountains…black wrought iron and rust red terracotta tiles…all herald the regal Spanish history of the area.  The sleepy homeyness of Santa Cruz remains but  with an added tinge of understated elegance. Perhaps it’s the proximity of Pebble Beach, The Lodge, mansions of 17 Mile Drive and luxury spas of Carmel Valley or the exclusivity of Carmel Village that create such an image. Many times did the boys and I come to see the heralded ‘Crosby’ here. There would be a group of us staying at the Pacific Grove Motels in fine camaraderie, watching the practice rounds and being amazed at the superior skills of our favorite golf pros at the driving range temporarily positioned on the polo fields. They were days of unbridled fiesta-ing of ‘The Sun Also Rises’ Pamplona….yes, The Crosby Pro-Am was a pageant for the common golf aficionado to rub shoulders with  the likes of Nicklaus or Watson or  laugh with the bad shots of Jack Lemon or sit next to Telly Savalas breakfasting at the Lodge overlooking the 18th green. We would see the same groups of guys each year and we would buy each other drinks. One year two of the fellows came dressed as Batman and Robin with capes flowing out from their red Corvette convertible. And of course, the indispensable drink around the outdoor fireplace of Carmel Mayor Clint Eastwood’s,  Hog’s Breath was always a must.  Ah! But they were halcyon days of bubbling joy spent in the sunshine of our youth. Billy…God bless, Billy! …he would later sing..’those were days, my friends….we thought they’d never end, Those were the days,  Oh yes, those were the days.’

I find the spot that talks to me. It’s Alvarado Street just a block or so from the wharf of Monterey Bay. Red neons mark inviting entrances. There is an English pub but instantly dismiss it. Next door is a homey coffee shop with tables along the window looking onto the pedestrians along Alvarado Street. I like it. A hearty burger with salad and a side of mayo along with their best glass of Cabernet from the Santa Maria Valley is my order which I give to the waitress quickly and settle back on my chair to absorb the passers-by and shops across the way and reflect on the many vistas of the day’s adventure..

Over the Grade to the Mission

It’s a spectacular morning in the land of Steinbeck. I’m ready for a grand day across Monterey and San Benito Counties. But….first the flat tire. Change the tube and inflate anew. The pump breaks. So, I remember the bike shop on Del Monte and walk gingerly on my arthritic knee. There’s the wharf, the Naval Post Graduate School, a lake, the old theater….but, guess what? No bicycle shop. Under Highway 1 to Seaside and my knee is killing me. I stop for a Starbuck’s coffee and sit to regain my bearings and ask if there might be a bike shop. To my surprise….just a block up the street I find Seaside Cycles and I’m once again elated and the pain in my knee miraculously vanishes.

I’m back on the beach bike path happy and carefree. It’s still and spectacular. At Reservation Road I turn east through what had been Fort  Ord toward Salinas over flat brambly countryside. There are new housing developments and at the airport. I chuckle at memories of my  stoogey exploits during the ROTC days training in this area. The firing range along the beaches and the survival, escape and evasion somewhere nearby where I was instantly caught and subjected to prisoner camp humiliations. In short order I’m in Salinas where I refresh my bearings by asking a bus driver in city center the whereabouts to the road towards San Juan Bautista. He did not know. Asked a few more folks but soon gave up and trekked north on First Street according to my best recollections. Salinas is a farming town with many vintage buildings but a bit rough about the edges. I travel some miles and stop several times for a drink and directions. No one seems to know that magical road that goes over the mountains to San Juan Bautista. Amazing!!! So, finally I surrender to the idea of buying a map at the nearby Safeway. Before I buy…I sneak a peek…San Juan Grade…yep, there it is. Just a block up the street. And a big street it is, plainly market, too! I’m amazed. People never seem to know the names in their own neighborhoods.

I leave the trappings of Salinas behind and settle in a rhythmic contemplative mood progressing at good speed on the winding and country road. There are creeks and oak clusters and switchbacks with good views of the bay. I climb and climb toward the summit where begins San Benito County. I stop for water and call Patricia to share the beauty of the spot. I go on and on with my descriptions and feel great as to how effortless the climb is…then, there is a flat. I change tubes and use my new pump with meter. It works great.

At the summit is the county line and the difference is perceptible as the road becomes a quilt-work of raised patches. The valley floor below is dotted with new housing developments. I’m careful with the speed as the road is a bit rough. It’s warm but the stiff afternoon breeze  is refreshing. I marvel at the hawks as they catch thermals and seem to hang almost motionless along the ridges as I descend. What marvelous creatures they are. Then there was the hotelier who cautioned me about the banditos along this road.’ They hold up cyclists’, she said. As I went through densely wooded turns I would be looking with wide eyes for ‘the banditos’. Never saw a one…that was some years ago…and she is probably still laughing.

I see Vertigo sign to my left as I enter San Juan Bautista. It’s a restaurant or commercial center in construction. How appropriate, I muse. I remember the movie well. With Kim Novak and Jimmy Stewart climbing up the shaky stairs of the mission’s bell-tower. An Alfred Hitchcock classic!  Main street is sleepy and sun baked. There are homes, businesses and tourist shops along the way. It’s touristy but not glitchy or pretentious. At the entrance of the mission complex a brightly colored chicken walks along the sidewalk unbothered. Then there is another. I walk along the porticoes and view the vintage Spanish buildings across the square…the hotel and stables and former residence…all framed in the ovals of the arches. The square is vast and to the north adjacent the cemetery and tower is a view of the original El Camino Real and valley to the north. All is a bit worn and the edges are not so neat but it feels real and solid. It’s for tourists but, but not commercialized. I feel comfortable. I can see the band of early Californians trekking under the hot sun, dry vegetation and dusty roads with horses pack mules and wagons….Juan Gaspar de Portola, Father Junipero, the Spanish soldiers. All for the glory of God…ah, ehr…perhaps for the gold and glory of Spain, too! A cat walks by. Then another chicken. There is the walled gardens, and small museum, the roses, the cemetery under the olive trees and a refreshing breeze and a heavenly Gregorian chant, the coolness of the thick adobe walls and brick floors. And…the floors…some paw prints…and cat opening through doors. I am in deep contemplation and back in a time long gone by.

Back on main street  there is a lively sounding bar. A brewski, perhaps?. It’s a lazy afternoon and only a few locals are sitting about. There are signs posted at the back-bar which make me laugh. The very local personality outs. “Harley parking, all the rest will be crushed” and “For a small town there sure are a lot of assholes!” I sip the cold beer and chuckle as I listen to the locals banter with the usual and familiar bar jargon. Outside under the sign, Mom & Pop’s Saloon, I call Gina to give her a report on the mission. Her voice sounds clear and close and I marvel at the technology as I sit and view main street San Juan while giving a color account of the day’s adventures.

The Locals, the Flats & the Rescue

Hollister, it seems, is the tale of two cities…the new developments to the south by San Juan Oaks and Ridgemark Golf Courses and the old culture in town. I had intended to ride towards Ridgemark, dine and spend the evening in the golf surroundings. But…on the road there was a flat tire…again. So, I made a quick decision towards practicality and headed in-town where there might be bike shops and more services if the situation warranted. Normally I change tires every fifteen hundred miles and that simply and easily avoids flats. But this time I hadn’t paid attention.  Had I been thinking clearly I would have stopped at the in-town bike shop and re-tired….but I stopped midtown for another brewski and hotel information. While reveling with the Friday afternoon locals one of the fellows commented on my bold U. S. Marine Corps jersey. He loved it…till he found out that I had served in the U. S. Army. Then he wanted to know why I would do such a thing. He was laughing but serious at the same time. Finally I told him that it was a gift from my wife and that I suspected that she had a Marine boyfriend. He laughed…and as I walked out the door we had a good chat about my riding adventures.

I holed up at the Cinderella Motel. My room was ‘the prince charming’. All the rooms had such names. The interior was a color fantasy of Disneyland and would not have been surprised if Grumpy or Dopey or Doc jumped out of the closet. I was amused and readied for dinner at the best place in town, Payne’s. The proprietress said this was the closest to Italian they had. It was Friday night so, I figured that this place would give me the best picture of the social scene in this farming town.

I wanted them to stow my bike in a back room. But…the hostess got the owner and they pondered…back rooms were full, they said.

 “What about window seat?”, I asked.  They showed me windows in the dining room but were too high to view the street. Then…the bar area. One window was good.

“That’ll do”, I said.

The place was spacious, well worn, and seemed to have a lot of room around the back. The owner just did not care to accommodate my bike thing. So, I was seated, looking out the window at my bike leaning against the sign post to insure it would not be stolen. What a big deal….I was aggravated. But…I ordered a glass of house Cabernet…it was good, so I settled back looking forward to a good dinner.

It was dark and comfortable in the bar; the bartender was chatting with the locals and servicing the waitresses from the dining room; I ordered a steak sandwich with fries and salad. There was a middle aged guy at the bar with trim jeans and tea shirt drinking beer with his money on the bar. He sat by himself. When someone new came in the bar he would go to them, greet them and do the handshake thing. You know…two hands, knuckles and hug. Then he would come back and sit. And up again. And…again. Then a heavy set guy walked in slowly. He seemed to have gravitas…both by his demeanor and how the crowd halted, nodded and gazed. You could feel his presence in the room. My guy, Tony…up, again…the hug and handshake and the lingering conversation. It became obvious…the heavy wanted to be rid of this guy. The conversation lingered and you could see the tedium on his face.

I ate my steak and drank the cab. It was good except for the bread which was awful. Not being toasted it absorbed all the juices from the steak and had become a gooey mess. I gazed at the bike out the window, removed the soaked soft white roll and was aggravated again. Then I began to laugh and feel great…what a grand day it all had been. The bar began to fill, dinner folks drifted in and out and others settled for a cocktail after work.  There was a comfortable feel and rhythm with the bartender, waitresses, the motion of the people and Tony..up and down and the handshake.

Towards nine-ish the staff began to set up the stage. “Music, tonight?”, I asked the waitress as she placed the check on the table.

“No, kareoki tonight!”, she replied as she rushed off.

Well, I thought, it’s a good time to go. Before the singing starts. I’ll quit while ahead.

“You gotta know when to hold’em,  You gotta know when to fold’em….”   As I sit sipping a cold beer at The Garlic Shoppe’s picnic table at the intersection of Highway 101 and route 25 that’s what I’m humming.  Gina’s on the phone and Patricia will soon pick me up. Yep, the trip is over. There was a severe case of the flats and before I went completely nuts it was time to fold’em and go home.

The day began pleasantly enough…coffee and croissant at the McDonald’s across the street; a visit to the bike shop for three new inner tubes and a pleasant ride along route 25 towards Gilroy. The road was being resurfaced so, I had the pleasure of riding on the lane which was sequestered and closed to traffic. I was humming at twenty plus miles per hour with a fine view of the fields and orchards on either side. The mountains of Uvas Meadows and Colero were clearly visible to the west. Then there was a flat. Changed into a new inner tube and rode another mile. A flat again. Another new inner tube. Pumped it up. And….without riding it went flat even though I had inspected the tire for foreign objects. Patched one of the many punctured inner tubes, installed it, pumped it up and rode. Slowly and perceptibly I could feel the back rim hitting the road surface. And…with a wry and sardonic grin on my face I rode bumpily along. No intention of attempting another change. The phone rang…”Patricia, come pick me up. My tires are goners and I’m getting flats.” I asked…and nicely so. For I was not in a strong position.

You gotta know when to fold em…I kept on humming…looking at the traffic on 101 and the foothills beyond Morgan Hill and Gilroy. That ride will have to wait for another day. And…the next trip will have new tires from the get go.  ‘Beep, Beep’, there was Patricia. She exited her red VW Beetle with white pooch in tow…my rescue had arrived.

From the bike path at Sand City just north of Monterey

A rustic scene from the garden of Mission San Juan Bautista. I strolled the gardens, under the porticos, chickens and cats wandering at their ease and a soothing Gregorian Chant over the sound system.

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