Farewell, America

I lived in Marin County, California. Until six months ago, I was oblivious to this serious oddity - living in a county among so many cyclists and my own nonchalance to bicycling. But I was prodded in the right direction by multitude of small steps, each, in and of itself were disconnected, but together led me one evening to try out a CAAD 8 that was on sale with a price just enough to tickle.

This is how it started. I had decided to move back to my home country India to be closer to my parents. I wished to check all those boxes before I leave Marin: things I wish I had done, things I had done, but would have to liked to have done more. Fortunately due to same strange circumstances I was forced to take paid time off - time that I hadn’t taken off in years - to stave off a lethal HR policy that would gobble those hours. Having nothing else to do, I did long hikes every few days on the Marin Coast. Starting from the headlands, catching up again at the Palomarin trail head, of course taking the diversion to see the next-to-Niagara size Alamere Falls, all the way to Wildcat Beach, up the Inverness Ski Trail, Mt.Vision and beyond. I would typically start late in the morning, with a water bottle, a cold turkey sandwich, a fruit. I would drive to the chosen trail head of the day, hike for 8-10 miles, return to the parking lot and drive back home.

My final hike before my vacation ended was picking up the coastal trail from the middle of West Ridgecrest Blvd up on Mt.Tam. The Seven Sisters were draped in a beige carpet of dry grass enveloped by thick white fog from the west covering the redwood trees. To my amazement I found a bunch of dare-devils riding on those steep hills! It didn’t occur to me that I would ever attempt that myself. Even if it had occurred it would have seemed ridiculous to think that I would make it alive on the other end.

But the experience from the long hikes was encouraging for me to pick up some activity that would move my limbs enough to raise my heart rate above 120. So I walked into our LBS^* and explained to Bruce the salesman, what I was looking for , of which I had no idea except that I didn’t have a fat budget to go splurge on something that I hadn’t even been fond of doing. But he guided me deftly to a CAAD 8 on sale. Inside the store between the racks of new bikes there was a path to “test” drive. He explained all the features in detail, including the mechanism of shifting and braking. Everything he said went over my head except the braking part. I hopped on with great difficulty as the height of the seat post was intimidating. I started pushing the pedals. Within a few strokes I felt the magic. Myriad thoughts came to me as I was riding the 40 yard loop inside the store. Why is this thing so light? Is that why it flies? Or Is it because I am so good at this?

After a week long tussle between rational decision making and the power of first intuition, I went back to order my frame size. I had to wait another week to get it in the store. After making daily phone calls at all hours and learning the first name of all the employees in the store, I finally got it. After picking up the paraphernalia^* that a cyclist needs, such as a biking shorts, a helmet, a bottle cage and a water bottle. Kelly at the store taught me how to operate the quick release levers and helped me load the bike onto my car. As she waved bye, she had a look of concern and incredulity as to how I was going to put the front wheel back. It was a miracle I was able to do that when I got back home

The first week I started riding a grand total of 3 miles every morning , returning winded and sweaty. That weekend I charted my way to work. Half way to my work the “hills” that I didn’t even register living in this county for 10 years began to announce their presence in a hurtful way. I turned back home. The thought that if I commute to work, I wouldn’t even make it to work was depressing and forbidding. I pushed more that week end. I asked a friend, an experienced cyclist to join me on a ride. He asked me to plot a ride route to Marin Headlands. Little did I know that with my fitness it was near delusional to think I would reach the top. But we rode on, stopping on a few occasions, grabbing a bite or gulping a few sips. Once we reached all the way up, I thought may be this isn’t so bad, pushing 4 miles an hour up the hill. It takes twice the time if you walk.

All this time, I hadn’t even got the chain on to the big ring on the front. Every time I tried it wouldn’t. get on. Suspecting something wrong with the bike, I took it the LBS. I learned that I had to get my cadence high enough to make the up shift. There I saw a flier for a Sunday no drop group ride. I returned back the next Sunday on time. I was greeted warmly by Wayne, our group leader along with a few other riders. Wayne took instant stock of me, saw the way I was sitting on the saddle and must have thought ’dog on a fence’. As we began the ride, he taught me how to sit, where to keep my hands and how to pedal. As we were coming up against a roller, he advised me which gear I should be on (granny gear of course). We rolled on to Lucas Valley road up the big rock. The group that came with us were way ahead. As the grade got steeper I was panting and my lungs were discombobulated. Wayne was persistent and he told me to keep pedaling. He coaxed, encouraged, threatened, cajoled, insulted and humored me up the hill. He said,’ We are going to break you down and make you a strong rider’. If I had been able to speak my mind, that is to say if I had been able to speak at all, I would have said, I was sure about the first part but not about the second part. He was wise enough to send me home after we climbed the big rock.

He was shocked to see me return the next week for the ride. He announced gladly that ‘we haven’t killed you after all’. So the self-inflicted misery began again. This time I had our ride director Scott with me who seemed to be more sympathetic to my plight. But even he got perplexed as I slowed down to a snail’s pace. He said, ‘Please yell if you were going to stay behind’. Yell? If only my lungs were able to even whisper I thought.. But I reached the top my legs got cramped from all the inefficient pushing and I couldn’t get out of my clip less pedals. The thought that I would have to ride on was equally horrifying to me as well as the group. But I was able to clip out after 100 yards of trying and turn my way back home. Apart from effortless clipping out I wondered what it would take to ride with the group all the way.

Then we started to do the “short rides” around the Tiburon peninsula as winter progressed . It is a pretty sight when our paceline rolls along the bay on Seminary drive. You might wonder how would I know if I was in the paceline myself? Trust me, I could see it from far behind, so I know. Slowly I was improving and Wayne was very pleased to see me ride with the group some of the time. The long coffee breaks followed by heated discussion they had on whether to revise the group’s no drop policy helped me to eventually catch up with the group.

Emboldened by this huge success, I decided to ride the whole 50 miles next week. I was going fine on the first 15 miles. We had a pit stop and followed by announcements on who wants to be on the group turning back. I was getting some water because I had consumed 2 full bottles for the first 15 miles and nobody in the group thought I would be continuing on for the long course. I wouldn’t blame them, so they took off. I rode for the next 15 miles alone through the rolling hills of West Marin smelling horse manure around the picturesque Nicasio . Luckily the group was still around at Point Reyes Station, enjoying a post-meal chit chat. Lesson learned: better to stay dehydrated or to hold your bladder than to leave the group.

No cycling experience is complete without a crash (or two^*). Mine was due. It was great weather, everybody was in the zone, I was right behind my ride leader Brian on the Paradise drive, I was scrubbed for speed at a few sharp left turns. Trying to be aggressive on the next turn, I lost control of my bike, tipped over the handlebar, landed on a soft muddy spot 1 feet away from a boulder. Next thing I know Dave was leaning over my face, asking me what was the day of the week. Luckily I was able to ride on after a sort break. But Brian wouldn’t trust me, so he came right with me to my door step and dropped me off. Boy, these guys really mean it when they say “no drop” I thought.

One of the unforgettable experience was riding the Seven Sisters. It was Tuesday the Dec 27^th. It was unseasonably warm that day. I got fully hydrated and ate a bowl of oatmeal and a banana 2 hours before the ride. I pushed on to Fairfax to the Bolinas-FairFax Road. Soon the climb got serious. The only way I knew to climb the hill was on granny gear, seated. This time I tried to do something different. I stood up on the saddle for 30 seconds for every minute of seated pushing. Finally I reached the Alpine Dam. Decision time : To go back to Fairfax or dare to climb the Seven Sisters and descend to Mill valley? To me both were equally horrifying. So I decided to climb the Seven Sisters. Once I reached the top of every hill, I rolled down as fast as I could to get enough momentum for the next roller. After seeing off the last sister I started the unrelenting descent down to Mill Valley. It was the hardest part of that ride. I never knew descending could be this scary and would require so many prayers. I was looking forward to the next climb on the route .

My last ride before I left Marin was to Point Reyes Station. As it was my farewell ride, I was eagerly looking forward to it and enjoyed every minute of it. Well almost, if you don’t count the minutes up on Whites hill. We had a pretty uneventful ride all the way home until we reached Fairfax. I skidded on a water puddle and sacrificed an inch of skin to the pavement God. It was my tribute to Marin for providing me an unforgettable riding experience the past 6 months. Once I reached our LBS I saw an older couple fixing their bikes at the service station. The lady looked at me and said , “I wish I had your legs“. I thought, to myself “Excuse me? Have you seen these legs in action on Whites hill?” But I smugly accepted the compliment. So here is the takeaway: if you live near Marin or any other place with roads safe for cycling and wish to be complimented on your legs by ladies 30 years older than you, do yourself a favor. Grab a bike and start riding!

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^* Six months ago I would have certainly thought that LBS means pounds, but would have wondered why it has to be capitalized

^* I learned later that when it comes to bicycling the word paraphernalia is woefully inadequate.. It requires something even more grandiose

^* Clipless pedal accidents don’t count