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Date: Mon, 12 Apr 1999 00:09:59 EDT

Once again Danny is off tending to his skiing, and it falls upon Franco to compose the Tuesday ride report. The day threatened moisture as we gathered at Forest Knolls. "We" had been in doubt, given the absence of el Presidente, Jake, Badass, Babs, Mt. Val, Sutat and others. But plurality was ensured when Brent came rolling in. It appeared like it was going to be a leisurely excursion. We mused in the rig while I prepared, and then headed to Samuel P. to check the campsites for a friend rumored to have fled her nest. Unsuccessful, we headed for and up Jewel trail, which was more of a bog than I had ever experienced. Technical mud. I kept saying, "it's only a cow pasture" as I braided my way past the sticky spots. Brent stuck nearby, as we conversed about raising kids and frayed cables. I'm impressed with his tales of offspring, and of his involvement in their schooling. Very 60's­yet he's so young.

We dallied at the rock for a half-hour or so, then moseyed up the Ridge for a look down a new (for me) route to Highway One. It looks as if it will be a hoot once the clearing has been done. (Sorry, it's a secret.) At that point, Brent bailed down the Shaft, and I went on up the trail to experience the Redwood forest. It began to rain as I enjoyed my lunch near the top of McCurdy. I realized that I was alone and thus free. I could have the perfect fantasy ride. So I did. I first blasted down McCurdy, catching air on numerous occasions. With a freshly invigorated sphincter muscle, I assaulted Willow Camp, and cleaned the whole damn thing, though I confess I had to use the little chainring here and there. A first for me, but then, I had only been up it once before. Thus stoked, I gravitated up to Wedding Rock, where I mediated a heated discourse among a gaggle of nuns debating the benefits of full-contact origami as a way of mitigating the horrors of abstinence. I was able to calm them down, but it seemed like a lot of denial to me. I determined that I needed the succor of the potentially human movement, and being out in the boonies, I headed for Green Gulch to sit for a spell with Zen Master Kauzu Takatoke. Shortly after assuming my regular cushion near the door, I was lost in sweaty meditation. The Zen Master, probably inspired by my fragrance, began aggressively fidgeting and looking at me as if he wanted me to transcendentally motivate to some other location. Finally, he serenely hustled over, raised his hand in seeming supplication and slapped the shit out of me. He said, "Grasshopper, that is the sound of one hand clapping." I decided I'd had enough, and headed on up Middle Green Gulch Trail.

Succumbing to pervasive urges, I made my pilgrimage to Slacker's Hill. I was breathless as I reached the top and lovingly looked down on the Potato Patch and San Francisco. Suddenly, and without warning, a squall came up, and I saw a small child fall from the stern of a passing yacht. I could see that she had only a brief time left, unless I took quick action. I was able to raise a passing aircraft carrier on my (much maligned) cell phone, and, (recalling with photographic precision the charts of the bay from the old days when I ran a shrimp trawler ,) was able to guide Harrier Jets to the proper coordinates where the tide had indeed brought the victim. Not a moment too soon, and I truly blubbered when they wagged their wings in thanks as they flew away.

Emboldened, I decided to settle an old dispute, and evaluate both sides of White's hill to see which was harder. I got there via Rodeobobcatmiwokdiazridgepipelinerailroadridgecrestalpinedamoldveeshithilllitt leshithillpastRepackthendowntoBoy Scout. It was going to be a difficult choice. Some people feel strongly that the route from the west was hardest, while others feel with equal intensity that the other is more extreme. I went up from the west first, and barely made the little hard piece just before the end. Again, I had to shift to the small chain ring. Probably old age. After a view-bliss experience, I scooted down to Boy Scout and came back up the other way. It was without event, but difficult. I still didn't know which way was harder. Repeated efforts from each side yielded inconclusive results. I quit in a despair of indecision. I decided to challenge the Chute that had been my demise in July. I headed across the valley, skirted the Vernonator's digs, and pondered the trail. Recalling my earlier fears, I first tackled it from the bottom. After about 6 successful ascents, I tried it downhill. At first I was shaky to say the least. I didn't know if I could do it. But I persevered, and by the 10th effort was comfortable. In fact, in a moment of glorious triumph, I went down the chute mimicking the form of my fateful July adventure. That is, my arms and legs were stretched out like a wrestler leaping to squash his opponent from the corner post. The difference this time­I had a bike under me, the seat firmly pressed against my stomach and my teeth affixing me to the handlebars. What a rush! No brakes, trusting that my oral surgeon left me with sufficient gums to cement my grip. Total success. The only thing left to overcome is my fear of descending the Chute with my hands on the bars. But patience. It doesn't come all at once. The Vernonator would have been proud. I'd had enough, and so headed back to Forest Knolls via Horseshoe Junction. While there, I paused for a brief game. It turned out to be a cliffhanger, as my disparate personalities struggled for ascendancy ­the Dionysian v. Apolonian; Yin and yang; Abbot and Costello. It ended as a tie, though I'm certain the game was fixed. So, down to the Knolls. On the way, I ran across a platoon of high-level MMWD and GGNRA folks, who were seriously considering closing Bolinas Ridge the following week. Fortunately, our shared interest in the baroque comb and parchment repertoire dented their animosity, and they were dissuaded from the contemplated draconian measures. Those doubting my veracity in these matters need only ride the Bolinas Ridge next week. It will be open. Truly, it was a fantasy ride. Too bad you weren't there to witness it with me. Maybe next time. That's all I have to say.

Statistics: 127 miles 28,940 feet of vertical gain no mechanicals one one-handed clap one saved baby one saved trail nun nonsense resolved no soiling of self

Happy trails,

Franco