Hills and Flats

I just got back from one of my favorite bike rides, known locally as the Lucas Valley Loop. It includes a five-mile stretch of country road that climbs gently from the tiny West Marin town of Nicasio up to Big Rock, where the pavement plummets down into Lucas Valley on its way toward Highway 101. On any day, this section of Lucas Valley Road is an ideal place to ride – not too much traffic, a rolling ascent, and beautiful scenery, too. On a hot summer day, the redwood tree-shaded lower part of the climb usually has a mini-climate that is many degrees cooler than almost anywhere else in Marin. I like to imagine the roads in Heaven will be like this.

Today, as the miles passed beneath my skinny tires , I thought about how many of life’s lessons I’ve learned while on my bike, but two stand out in my memory. Coincidentally, they both occurred while ascending this same gentle climb.

My first Lucas Valley lesson was during high school, back in 1973. Instead of regular gym class, a handful of us lucky cyclists would earn our P.E. credits by simply signing in at the beginning of seventh period and then going for a long afternoon jaunt. On this particular day, we headed north from Mill Valley up to Fairfax and west out to Nicasio, being led by Marc Horowitz.

Now, as far as we were concerned, Marc was the Real Deal. He rode a British Ron Cooper racing bike with a full Campy Record group (the best stuff at the time) and his hands seemed to be permanently tattooed with chain oil from fine-tuning his steed. He held the national junior record for the 10-mile time trial, I believe, and had even won a stage of the Tour of Mexico in a solo breakaway. Like I said, the Real Deal.

As our group rode along, Marc would impart wisdom, encourage us and provide a helping push if one was needed. That afternoon, as we approached the crest at Big Rock and sat up in anticipation of the swooping downhill, he chided us. This, he said, was the perfect time to attack in a race. Just as your opponents are catching their breath and grabbing for their water bottles, you have a real chance to open a gap. It was an opportunity not to be wasted. Then he suddenly sprinted out of his saddle and bombed the twisty downhill, with the rest of us trying desperately to catch up to his fast-disappearing Ron Cooper.

I learned the second lesson by myself, lower down on the same road and several years later. Riding solo one afternoon, I punctured and pulled off to change my tire. In those days, we all rode “sew-ups” or tubular tires. These enclosed the fragile rubber inner tube completely, thus requiring an entire new tire to be mounted on the rim after flatting. After a few minutes, my spare tire was installed and inflated, and I was back on my way. Unfortunately, I suffered a second puncture not more than a half-mile further up the road. Now, this was embarrassing, since I never carried a second spare. There was nothing left to do but get off and hitch a ride.

I tried to flag down passing motorists, but they were few and far between. And the ones that did pass never even slowed down. After half an hour of this, I had a flash of insight: Maybe they just thought I was a lazy cyclist, hoping for a free ride up the hill? To test my theory, I took the front wheel out of my forks and held it up in one hand as I raised my other thumb in the universal signal of the hitch-hiker. The very next driver stopped and gave me a ride back into town.

So there you have it. Nothing earth-shattering, but then, most of life’s teachings can be fairly subtle. The first lesson taught me that when you are just about tapped out is the ideal time to reach deep and find that hidden extra gear. It was a much better illustration of than the old saw of “giving 110 percent.”

The second one was at the opposite end of the spectrum, a lesson in humility. Simply said, when you need help, make it clear to those who might be inclined to step in. So many times, we suffer in silence, yet are incensed that no one hears our unvoiced cries. In my experience, there is a surprising amount of compassion in the world, waiting to be tapped.

I've lost count of the number of times I’ve climbed up to Big Rock, but I’m always aware that the next lesson may be just around the bend.