Call me provincial, but I believe the Gibraltar Road bike ride stacks up well against any road ride in the world.
The landscape of rocky hillsides and canopy of coast live oaks fronted by the sweep of ocean and sky make me overlook the steep pumping required to transport me up the grade.
At the top – defined for me as either the No-shooting sign at the top of the Cold Springs Trail or somewhere short of that — the sounds are quiet, but the views shout for joy.
When I turn around, I check my brakes and descend the single ski run.
Despite that thrill, these days I more often bike Mountain Drive. It rates second only in comparison to Gibraltar’s glory. While traffic is a bit heavier, it is likely to be other bikers or walkers tethered to their dogs. The road is mostly flat: a gear change here or there is barely needed.
I enjoy hearing snatches of conversation as I encounter or pass groups: “ … the deal fell through when …” or “ … the kids will visit next weekend but …”
Sometimes a whole peloton of bikers will pass, all “AI” this and “resource protection” that, my call of “Good morning!” scattered to the wind of their momentum.
I relish the peace of the solitary ride. Red-tailed hawks screech keer as they check me out. California quail scuttle across the asphalt, sounding their “ChiCAgo” song.
Several times in 20-odd years of biking I’ve braked for a crossing snake. I stop to protect it from bike and car wheels as it traces across the road. Others also pause for the one-snake parade. We all watch solemnly, and from a distance.
Another joy of solitary exercise is that I can accomplish it “on demand.” My legs yearn to stretch or my fingers need a break from tapping. Sometimes if I’ve been grappling with some concern, I can release it to the rotation of my tires and the beauty of nature. It’s not unusual for the problem’s resolution to seem obvious by the time I return.
Not being a fashion goddess, I was slow to adopt bike clothes as a uniform. I reasoned that since exercise was a higher goal than efficiency for me, I was better off in bulkier street clothes.
Eventually bike shorts’ padded seat converted me. Sure, they’re a little funny looking, but I appreciate that wriggling into tight bike shorts (or a wetsuit) is preferable to the girdles my mom and great-aunts used to wear.
At my usual turn-around spot, I pause for a few minutes. I admire the old bridge’s fine jigsaw puzzle stonework and listen to birds and the creek, if it’s still running. I might check my email or do Wordle or Sudoku, though I’ve mostly given those up.
Often a lone biker or a pack will roll through. Seeing me stopped, someone will inevitably call out, “Everything OK?”
“Yes, thanks,” I return. Everything is splendid.
Karen Telleen-Lawton, Noozhawk Columnist
This article was published on April 22nd, 2024 in Noozhawk – you can read it “in print” here.
Karen Telleen-Lawton is an eco-writer, sharing information and insights about economics and ecology, finances and the environment. Having recently retired from financial planning and advising, she spends more time exploring the outdoors — and reading and writing about it. The opinions expressed are her own.
KTL at CanyonVoices dot com