Caveat emptor

Last week I filed a complaint with the state to get an MRI of my spine.

California is the first state in the US to roll out a health exchange of private insurers. It's the first step in implementing the Affordable Care Act (ObamaCare).

Blue Shield is one of the 3 largest insurers operating here. They're participating in the health exchange.

So lots of Californians can give them money. And then... and then...

Well good luck with that!

Gadgetry

Tell how this gadget can help a cyclist with a brain injury, and a ride will be dedicated to you!
;-)

Driven to excess

Heading toward the notch

This is the first Davis Double Century in recent memory where the forecast says it's not going to be a million degrees. That means arm warmers and knee warmers and a vest. If heat makes us slow, cool makes us...

This is what it looks like when singles try to hold onto the wheel of a tandem going 25 mph. Exhilaration, and misery.

Of course, we'll have our share of those things too. We'll climb gamely through the notch, up Monticello Dam, Cardiac, Tandem Hill, to Pope Valley. Arrive at the Farm Center at 9:45am. That's fast.

Honey Hill and Butts Canyon. Then, Big Canyon. Yay! Welcome back, Big Canyon! On the unpaved part we chat with Rene, who lives a couple of miles from me in Silicon Valley.

This is for all those who think the Davis Double is a flat ride. And those who know better but might have forgotten ;) We are powering up the hills, passing many singles along the way. It feels good in the moment but a tandem is not supposed to pass a single bike uphill. It goes against nature.

The sun comes up at 5:45 and sets at 8:15. Many hours of daylight now. It's possible to get to a place where you're recovering or training during the week and doing bike events every weekend. Everyone you know is a cyclist. Every time you get off the bike you expect snacks and fruit on a table. Your perspective gets a little out of whack.

Resurrection is a long one. At which point, you just want to bring it home. The temptation is to hammer through Cache Creek and the Capay Valley (so beautiful). Let's say you do that. Your only warning sign is that guy from lunch in the Terrible Two jersey who says "there's the 30-mile-an-hour tandem!"

Well, to be perfectly honest your legs know the story. They're brave but not infinite...

And you might run out of steam around mile 170. Totter in, thwarted by a steady headwind. Blech.

Still, average speed 16.4 mph. Plenty of daylight left on the table. Ain't no brevet!

Eight Stars

Tired, sore, cranky.

The real lesson of Herculean effort is that mind, body, and emotions are all connected. For real.

Run low on sugar and the body slows down, thinks this hill is way too hard, feels utterly helpless and bewildered. Have a Coke, get invincible again. Run low on electrolytes and the muscles weaken, thoughts turn negative, emotions lash out. Have a big can of V-8, get back on the bike.

After a 600K it is normal for me to run low on everything and feel cranky for a couple of days. That's what the car is for. Head for Eight Stars. Soothing music. Hot tub, cold plunge, sauna. Repeat.

Followed by an hour of deep tissue massage. I warn the guy about the whiplash injury. No need to worry about aggravating it. After all, I've done an excellent job of that by riding four hundred miles. But a spasm in my lower back won't give up the fight.

And the massage guy says "that's really common with the whiplash injury".

He can state the obvious: there's a connection. The insurance companies have no power here. They don't cover treatments like Eight Stars and a massage therapist. The truth is safe.

It's a different story with Dr. F. It's something he will not admit, even though as an osteopath his motto is "everything is connected". The fear of being dragged into a courtroom and possibly losing his license is too great. Instead I hear how the spasm is totally separate from my cervical sprain. Must be caused by cycling! And the structural issue in my neck has been there all along, since I was born.

This all just happens to be expressing itself after a car accident.

He is a good osteopath; expensive, but good. The treatments help. But apart from money I can't go there right now. I arrive in pain; he makes it go away as long as I listen to a bunch of stuff that is not the truth.

Which would you choose, pain or truth?

Chasing optimism

There is always a low point on a long bike ride. On this ride it comes in the Alexander Valley, with the sun blazing overhead, marginal pavement, and the wind in my face.

Yes, on the 400K we had a headwind going the other way here. Life is not fair.

Can't remember why I'm doing this.

The heat and vibration from the road are causing my feet to swell inside my shoes. Bringing nerve pain into the mix. It gets so bad I have to clip out a couple times. Electrolytes. Start taking the salt pills.

Westside Road is misery, barely rideable. Untouched by road crews in more than a decade. I'm just making for the trees and the coastal cool as fast as possible. That's all I can think about. That, and whether it's really possible to recognize specific holes and cracks in the road surface... Maybe we should start naming them.

My left cleat is squeaking with each pedal stroke. What the hell. Don't have a fix for that.

In Guerneville the patches of shade do offer some relief. In Safeway I run into another randonneur! Then a few more show up outside. After riding solo for 8 hours and 115 miles, it's good to be in a pack. Some of us have had more sleep, some less. Eighty miles to go. There's still time.

More challenges lie ahead: Bohemian Highway, traffic and endless rollers on the coast, fatigue setting in. Passing by Wild Flour Bakery in Freestone without a sticky bun.

In retaliation I take photos only of things that actually ARE how I want them to be.

The one flat section of road on Highway 1 between Valley Ford and Marshall

Location, location, location 

Heartbreakingly, inconceivably real

The bus stops here

This is an important moment. 

On a brevet there are quite a few moments. No shortage of moments here. 

This one is important because in all of human history it might be the first time someone has hurried through the bucolic Anderson Valley thinking "How long until Cloverdale?"

Anderson Valley, land of ancient oak chaparral, world class pinot noir vineyards, Boonville (which comes with its own language), and quirky individuals. 

Cloverdale, where the main drag still feels like Highway 101. With its mini-marts and McDonald's and redneck vibe. It wants to be part of the wine country but no one goes to Cloverdale for wine. It's Home of the Citrus Fair but I don't know anyone who has been to the Citrus Fair. Ever.

When I was a kid we used to drive through on the way to the Big City. Everyone had to drive through. Cloverdale was a town of drive-ins: Pick's (still open), Foster's Freeze, Hi-Fi, A&W. I was fascinated by the Hi-Fi because they would take orders over the CB radio and have the food waiting when you got there. We didn't have a CB radio in the car, but still! In the heyday of logging the town was swarming with truckers.

The fairgrounds lie at the south end of town, just before the Owl Cafe. The cafe is what I've been dreaming about, longing for along Highway 128 through the gorgeous valley and back over the hill. On a 600K, breakfast trumps everything.

The Owl Cafe was one of the places where the Greyhound bus along 101 picked up people and stopped for food. It seems to be the only place in town serving breakfast. After 33 miles on a bagel with cream cheese and banana, only a meteorite in this exact place and time would prevent me from eating here.

Already hot in the sun. The clock on the wall says 3 minutes to 9am. Somehow I've made good time! Or 6 weeks ago the Cloverdalians neglected to spring their clocks forward. Or that's when the meteorite hit...

Breakfast is fresh and hot. It takes 10 minutes to arrive and 5 minutes to clean the plate. Time to get moving. Another 10 minutes and I'll have to order another breakfast. The pancakes look good...

So I fill up the Camelbak, fork over a yuppie food coupon, and roll happily out of town.

Next, Guerneville Safeway for lunch!

In the egg of night

The secret, if one may paraphrase a savage vocabulary, lies in the egg of night.
-Loren Eiseley

For some reason I look up, and there are stars. It makes me unspeakably happy. This is somewhere south of Little River. At Indian Creek a drop bag waits with a warm shirt and clean riding clothes. I'd like to be there at dawn.

It is not cold, another stroke of luck. There might even be a light tail wind.

On Highway 1, 7 cars in 20 miles. I keep count, wait for them to pass, consider them intruders. Alone with my Edelux lamp, bright blinkie, and a sky full of company.

The whole human world is finally asleep. No talking on a smart phone. No ordering of grande half-caf soy lattes. No desperate, cynical baristas. No ego driving in a BMW or Porsche or Tesla Model S. No desperadoes ferrying kids in minivans. No RVs that don't fit on the road. No multitasking on smart phones in BMWs and minivans and RVs with a Starbucks cup in the cup holder.

No tailgating or passing. No smug stories, protests, rationalizations, pretense. No outright lies, or self-serving alignment of facts, or suggestions of what might be the case. No companies or would-be professionals or their wretched hangers-on. No agendas.

Two things: the white line in my headlight beam and the sky above. Dark and quiet. It turns out after radical subtraction the world is an excellent place.

The space that is left fills in with gratitude. Darkness, smooth pavement, the quiet redwoods lining the road. The banana and bar in my pocket when breakfast wears off. An occasional glimpse of winter constellations: Sagittarius reclining and watchful, fearless Scorpio. No flat tire or mechanical issue. Lights that work flawlessly.

The color of the sky has shifted to a very dark grey. I pass the sign for Dimmick Campground. The store at Navarro, deserted. The grey is lighter now. The slight incline of Highway 128 becomes rolling and the pavement turns rough; more effort required. The rollers mean we are getting close.

Philo, not a soul in view. It's dawn. The driveway leading to the campsite, where riders are just waking up. One huddles in a chair around a fire ring. Oh, the fire is warm...

Yogy, who has been up all night, takes my name and asks what I need. They'll make breakfast, if I want. Just some coffee and my drop bag, thank you.

I am the luckiest person in the world.