2010
LIVE FOR TODAY 010210
Captain's Log, January 2nd, 2010, Pinehurst Drive, solo ride. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider's cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means, and it's never good: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning. Actually, I should backtrack a bit and start my story around the second half of December of 2009. This is the seminal point where my holiday merrymaking got up a full head of steam and I bounced from event to event, party to party, eating and drinking well, all the while getting in solid bike rides in between. I was sated, I am still sated, and being sated is not conducive to getting up early when it is cold and riding my bike. Thus I have been sleeping deeply and riding at a later hour, which puts me out there solo sometimes. Solo riding leads to interesting situations. Situations such as today, when I was riding through Canyon and discovered the spot where Christopher Martin died, just a few days ago.More...
When I go out for a solo ride I often have a rough plan of where I want to venture to. Today was a little different, as once I crossed the Park St. bridge, I just put it on autopilot and let it happen. (By the way, the bridge was once again quite wet and very slippery, just as it was two weeks ago when four of us slid on its wet metal grid in a chain reaction crash. I ran some tests on the surface today and am alarmed at how treacherous the wet steel is. Be very careful in these conditions.) Somewhere between the Embarcadero and Laney College, sitting forlornly on the sidewalk conducting a one-man junk sale was a crusty old denizen of the streets who seemed to glare at me as I approached. I turned to him and said "Happy New Year!" and he smiled a toothy grin, waved, and returned the greeting. That was a molecule of joy, right there.
So I found myself in short order at Claremont Peet's, had a nice cup of Joe, and surveyed the clouds, noting some brightness here and there. I proceeded to ride up Tunnel Road, and at some point I rode into the bottom of the clouds and things got very misty and foggy. I like these conditions, they stir rare emotions within me. The fog and mist is dramatic, perhaps the wet grayness fires dormant genetic memories of Scottish moors visited by my ancestors, and I feel at home here. At any rate I carried on along Skyline, and came to the intersection of Pinehurst, which was socked in with fog, but not thinking twice, I plunged, carefully, oh so carefully, down into the ravine.
As I descended, I thought of riders I know who have crashed on this steep, twisty section. Wet pavement, mud, gravel, twigs and branches, and perhaps even moss all pose individual or collective hazards to the bike rider. So I went very slowly, the feeling of sliding out on the bridge still fresh in my muscle memory. Half way down I caught up to two other riders, both descending very slowly. I didn't care to pass so I followed behind. The second rider, a young, lanky guy, was wearing only summer kit, no arm or leg warmers, no jacket, no knit hat. He was shivering like a drenched cat, in fact I could see his front wheel oscillating in time with his spasming arms. Oh, and no helmet. He may have been a fine rider, but at this moment I considered him something of an idiot for not being prepared for these conditions. I followed them around the last hairpin corner and expected them to go, but they didn't, so I went left to pass, calling out. When I called out left, Mr. Freeze veered left, which made me run over a Bott's dot (those yellow pyramid reflectors), and I knew the hit was too sharp, and frozen guy was like " oh, sorry, sorry" and my front tire instantly deflated from a pinch flat, but I rode it to the next pull out. I pulled over to repair and these two asked if I needed help. Somewhat exasperated, I told them to go....just go.
But then proceeded an entertaining series of riders going by all asking if I needed help, I mean, really asking, looking concerned, slowing down, etc. One sage, obviously experienced graybeard rode up---you know, could be a Fred, a Shel, a Nideker--- stopped, and started holding forth about WHAT A GREAT DAY it was, and how he only rides up Pinehurst in these conditions, but then how it was like summer, only with fog. He told a story of someone he knows that crashed badly descending, hit some slimy corner, and took out an eye socket with the top of his brake hood, altering his life forever. (Ya...thanks for sharing that.) He finished by saying "its a crime against nature not to appreciate nature!", and then rode off stating he was getting cold. Two more roadies came by, offered their help, and I came up with the perfect response "Ya! could you pump this up for me?" holding up the deflated wheel. They laughed. You could not have scripted this 10 minute sequence of events any better.
One of the best feelings in cycling is when you resume riding after a repair. I don't know why, but its sweet, like an early parole. ( not that I'd know anything about that) But suddenly I felt the air had chilled and was blowing through my layers as I was coasting downhill, but knew some climbing was ahead, so all was good. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider's cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
I flashed back to the last time I stopped at one of these roadside memorials, last summer, at the top of Dublin grade. I read about it in the paper: a young couple, the driver, a boy, the girl the passenger, the car, a Corvette, driving too fast, out of control, crashed killing them both. That day had been two weeks since that crash, and the flowers had dried and started blowing away in the wind. Ribbons on the chain link fence were starting to tatter, and this entropy of the memorial added another layer of sadness to this piece of doomed real estate.
I jolted back to Pinehurst in the present, I passed this new memorial, slowed, and turned around and went back to look at it. It was eerily still and quiet, the light a diffuse gray everywhere but coming from nowhere. The trees softly dripped beads of dew upon the wet ground. I leaned my bike against the barbed wire fence and walked over to the memorial. The flowers were fresh. Among other tributes were two sheets of paper, handwritten, a couple of Hallmark cards, the Raider's cap on the fencepost. The sheets of paper were soaking wet and the ink was running looking like the tears of those left behind. I picked up one soggy paper, printed in elementary school letters, which read "Dear Dad, I love you with all my heart. I hope you have fun at the Biscuit Farm (unreadable), love, (child's name). A card read " Dad, I miss you so much, thinking of you always", love (older child) Pinned to the cap was a photo of a young girl with the words "Go Raiders!"
I stepped forward and looked over the edge of the road---at least 20 feet straight down to the creek. A large fallen tree trunk lay across the stream, with green shards of safety glass all over it. To my left, a large opening in the barbed wire fence, the earth torn, to my right and on the other side of the redwood tree, scuffed earth, muddy footprints, the path the recovery crew took down to the wrecked car. Burned out flairs in the road, oil absorbing sand lying on the asphalt like desert islands. I began to see how it all happened, a picture emerged in my mind, a likely scenario:
Christopher Martin was driving home in the dark heading west on Pinehurst, perhaps a tad too quickly, when something happened. Perhaps his phone rang and he looked down to see who was calling. When he looked up, he saw a deer in the road, frozen in the glare of the headlights. Without thinking, he swerved left, braked, but there was no shoulder, and instantly his Honda was airborne, pitching forward, his headlights illuminating the fallen tree, his final resting place. Did his life flash before his eyes? What was his last thought? Maybe only something as mundane as "OH SHIT!!!?" Maybe it happened this way, but if it didn't then probably some similar unfortunate series of circumstances led to his demise.
As I stood there piecing together the evidence, a Camry going west stopped in the road. A woman got out and walked over quickly. She gasped as she took in the memorial. I said, "Something unfortunate happened". She put her hand over her mouth as she read the words "Christopher Martin". " Oh...My...God!" she muttered under her hand. I asked her if she knew him and she nodded, saying she taught his child at the school. I asked if he was a Canyon resident and she nodded and replied enigmatically, "There has been Too Much of this lately", then quickly turned away and drove off. I stood there a while longer. A few other cyclists whizzed by, heads down, oblivious to the significance of this spot.
If I had been leading a group ride in this same place, I might not have noticed the memorial, or if I had, I probably would not have stopped: group dynamics as it were. A ride leader wouldn't just stop to check something out. In a solo situation it's different.
I turned back towards the way I came. I didn't feel right continuing on the way I was going so I rode back through Canyon, and just on the outskirts of town, I spied a deer antler lying on the side of the road
But I'm getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning. Actually, I should backtrack a bit and start my story around the second half of December of 2009. This is the seminal point where my holiday merrymaking got up a full head of steam and I bounced from event to event, party to party, eating and drinking well, all the while getting in solid bike rides in between. I was sated, I am still sated, and being sated is not conducive to getting up early when it is cold and riding my bike. Thus I have been sleeping deeply and riding at a later hour, which puts me out there solo sometimes. Solo riding leads to interesting situations. Situations such as today, when I was riding through Canyon and discovered the spot where Christopher Martin died, just a few days ago.More...
When I go out for a solo ride I often have a rough plan of where I want to venture to. Today was a little different, as once I crossed the Park St. bridge, I just put it on autopilot and let it happen. (By the way, the bridge was once again quite wet and very slippery, just as it was two weeks ago when four of us slid on its wet metal grid in a chain reaction crash. I ran some tests on the surface today and am alarmed at how treacherous the wet steel is. Be very careful in these conditions.) Somewhere between the Embarcadero and Laney College, sitting forlornly on the sidewalk conducting a one-man junk sale was a crusty old denizen of the streets who seemed to glare at me as I approached. I turned to him and said "Happy New Year!" and he smiled a toothy grin, waved, and returned the greeting. That was a molecule of joy, right there.
So I found myself in short order at Claremont Peet's, had a nice cup of Joe, and surveyed the clouds, noting some brightness here and there. I proceeded to ride up Tunnel Road, and at some point I rode into the bottom of the clouds and things got very misty and foggy. I like these conditions, they stir rare emotions within me. The fog and mist is dramatic, perhaps the wet grayness fires dormant genetic memories of Scottish moors visited by my ancestors, and I feel at home here. At any rate I carried on along Skyline, and came to the intersection of Pinehurst, which was socked in with fog, but not thinking twice, I plunged, carefully, oh so carefully, down into the ravine.
As I descended, I thought of riders I know who have crashed on this steep, twisty section. Wet pavement, mud, gravel, twigs and branches, and perhaps even moss all pose individual or collective hazards to the bike rider. So I went very slowly, the feeling of sliding out on the bridge still fresh in my muscle memory. Half way down I caught up to two other riders, both descending very slowly. I didn't care to pass so I followed behind. The second rider, a young, lanky guy, was wearing only summer kit, no arm or leg warmers, no jacket, no knit hat. He was shivering like a drenched cat, in fact I could see his front wheel oscillating in time with his spasming arms. Oh, and no helmet. He may have been a fine rider, but at this moment I considered him something of an idiot for not being prepared for these conditions. I followed them around the last hairpin corner and expected them to go, but they didn't, so I went left to pass, calling out. When I called out left, Mr. Freeze veered left, which made me run over a Bott's dot (those yellow pyramid reflectors), and I knew the hit was too sharp, and frozen guy was like " oh, sorry, sorry" and my front tire instantly deflated from a pinch flat, but I rode it to the next pull out. I pulled over to repair and these two asked if I needed help. Somewhat exasperated, I told them to go....just go.
But then proceeded an entertaining series of riders going by all asking if I needed help, I mean, really asking, looking concerned, slowing down, etc. One sage, obviously experienced graybeard rode up---you know, could be a Fred, a Shel, a Nideker--- stopped, and started holding forth about WHAT A GREAT DAY it was, and how he only rides up Pinehurst in these conditions, but then how it was like summer, only with fog. He told a story of someone he knows that crashed badly descending, hit some slimy corner, and took out an eye socket with the top of his brake hood, altering his life forever. (Ya...thanks for sharing that.) He finished by saying "its a crime against nature not to appreciate nature!", and then rode off stating he was getting cold. Two more roadies came by, offered their help, and I came up with the perfect response "Ya! could you pump this up for me?" holding up the deflated wheel. They laughed. You could not have scripted this 10 minute sequence of events any better.
One of the best feelings in cycling is when you resume riding after a repair. I don't know why, but its sweet, like an early parole. ( not that I'd know anything about that) But suddenly I felt the air had chilled and was blowing through my layers as I was coasting downhill, but knew some climbing was ahead, so all was good. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider's cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
I flashed back to the last time I stopped at one of these roadside memorials, last summer, at the top of Dublin grade. I read about it in the paper: a young couple, the driver, a boy, the girl the passenger, the car, a Corvette, driving too fast, out of control, crashed killing them both. That day had been two weeks since that crash, and the flowers had dried and started blowing away in the wind. Ribbons on the chain link fence were starting to tatter, and this entropy of the memorial added another layer of sadness to this piece of doomed real estate.
I jolted back to Pinehurst in the present, I passed this new memorial, slowed, and turned around and went back to look at it. It was eerily still and quiet, the light a diffuse gray everywhere but coming from nowhere. The trees softly dripped beads of dew upon the wet ground. I leaned my bike against the barbed wire fence and walked over to the memorial. The flowers were fresh. Among other tributes were two sheets of paper, handwritten, a couple of Hallmark cards, the Raider's cap on the fencepost. The sheets of paper were soaking wet and the ink was running looking like the tears of those left behind. I picked up one soggy paper, printed in elementary school letters, which read "Dear Dad, I love you with all my heart. I hope you have fun at the Biscuit Farm (unreadable), love, (child's name). A card read " Dad, I miss you so much, thinking of you always", love (older child) Pinned to the cap was a photo of a young girl with the words "Go Raiders!"
I stepped forward and looked over the edge of the road---at least 20 feet straight down to the creek. A large fallen tree trunk lay across the stream, with green shards of safety glass all over it. To my left, a large opening in the barbed wire fence, the earth torn, to my right and on the other side of the redwood tree, scuffed earth, muddy footprints, the path the recovery crew took down to the wrecked car. Burned out flairs in the road, oil absorbing sand lying on the asphalt like desert islands. I began to see how it all happened, a picture emerged in my mind, a likely scenario:
Christopher Martin was driving home in the dark heading west on Pinehurst, perhaps a tad too quickly, when something happened. Perhaps his phone rang and he looked down to see who was calling. When he looked up, he saw a deer in the road, frozen in the glare of the headlights. Without thinking, he swerved left, braked, but there was no shoulder, and instantly his Honda was airborne, pitching forward, his headlights illuminating the fallen tree, his final resting place. Did his life flash before his eyes? What was his last thought? Maybe only something as mundane as "OH SHIT!!!?" Maybe it happened this way, but if it didn't then probably some similar unfortunate series of circumstances led to his demise.
As I stood there piecing together the evidence, a Camry going west stopped in the road. A woman got out and walked over quickly. She gasped as she took in the memorial. I said, "Something unfortunate happened". She put her hand over her mouth as she read the words "Christopher Martin". " Oh...My...God!" she muttered under her hand. I asked her if she knew him and she nodded, saying she taught his child at the school. I asked if he was a Canyon resident and she nodded and replied enigmatically, "There has been Too Much of this lately", then quickly turned away and drove off. I stood there a while longer. A few other cyclists whizzed by, heads down, oblivious to the significance of this spot.
If I had been leading a group ride in this same place, I might not have noticed the memorial, or if I had, I probably would not have stopped: group dynamics as it were. A ride leader wouldn't just stop to check something out. In a solo situation it's different.
I turned back towards the way I came. I didn't feel right continuing on the way I was going so I rode back through Canyon, and just on the outskirts of town, I spied a deer antler lying on the side of the road
amidst the branches and leaves. I stopped and picked it up: it's about a foot long, with one fork at the end. I could see the pink area at its stump where it had been recently attached to the deer's skull. I thought that Cathy would like this for her office to compliment her birds nests, owl wings, and other organic nature/shamanistic type totems. So I put it in my back pocket, thinking about seasons changing, molting of horns, the cycle of life, how death can be as close as your shadow sometimes.
After the first hairpin turn climbing out of the canyon, I encountered a weary wayward recycler pushing his laden shopping cart. Yes, up Pinehurst, plastic bags full of cans overhanging the cart. The guy looked like a lumberjack, and I really was wondering what was going on, but didn't want to stop and talk, so I simply smiled and exclaimed "Happy New Year!" He perked up, replied in kind, and a little wiener dog in his cart popped up from beneath the cans and bottles to yap at me.
Back in Oakland, down by Laney College, an older, semi-toothless denizen of the streets was riding his beat up bike in a meandering fashion across the intersection at Foothill while I was waiting for the light to change. He looked right at me, so once again, I said "Happy New Year!" He lit up, pulled alongside, and gleefully started chatting me up. "My buddy was goin' to da dumps, and he say, you want dis bike? So I say HELL YES, and here I am, heh, heh!" He was so proud of his rolling treasure. I looked at the old mountain bike, the rear half brush painted red, the front half black, and it looked all there, it had handlebars, both wheels and a seat, so I said "It's beautiful man!" He beamed, the light changed, and I rode away. Another molecule of joy.
There were many lessons presented in today's ride. I'm still sorting it all out. The main lesson I think is: be observant, take in what you see, open up to life, live each day to the fullest, spread good vibes around, especially to those who need it most. Love your family while you can.
Ride on my friends, and be careful out there.
Flash
*******************
After the first hairpin turn climbing out of the canyon, I encountered a weary wayward recycler pushing his laden shopping cart. Yes, up Pinehurst, plastic bags full of cans overhanging the cart. The guy looked like a lumberjack, and I really was wondering what was going on, but didn't want to stop and talk, so I simply smiled and exclaimed "Happy New Year!" He perked up, replied in kind, and a little wiener dog in his cart popped up from beneath the cans and bottles to yap at me.
Back in Oakland, down by Laney College, an older, semi-toothless denizen of the streets was riding his beat up bike in a meandering fashion across the intersection at Foothill while I was waiting for the light to change. He looked right at me, so once again, I said "Happy New Year!" He lit up, pulled alongside, and gleefully started chatting me up. "My buddy was goin' to da dumps, and he say, you want dis bike? So I say HELL YES, and here I am, heh, heh!" He was so proud of his rolling treasure. I looked at the old mountain bike, the rear half brush painted red, the front half black, and it looked all there, it had handlebars, both wheels and a seat, so I said "It's beautiful man!" He beamed, the light changed, and I rode away. Another molecule of joy.
There were many lessons presented in today's ride. I'm still sorting it all out. The main lesson I think is: be observant, take in what you see, open up to life, live each day to the fullest, spread good vibes around, especially to those who need it most. Love your family while you can.
Ride on my friends, and be careful out there.
Flash
*******************
WEEKEND CHARACTERS 071110
Captain's Log, January 2nd, 2010, Pinehurst Drive, solo ride. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider's cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means, and it's never good: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning. Actually, I should backtrack a bit and start my story around the second half of December of 2009. This is the seminal point where my holiday merrymaking got up a full head of steam and I bounced from event to event, party to party, eating and drinking well, all the while getting in solid bike rides in between. I was sated, I am still sated, and being sated is not conducive to getting up early when it is cold and riding my bike. Thus I have been sleeping deeply and riding at a later hour, which puts me out there solo sometimes. Solo riding leads to interesting situations. Situations such as today, when I was riding through Canyon and discovered the spot where Christopher Martin died, just a few days ago.More...
When I go out for a solo ride I often have a rough plan of where I want to venture to. Today was a little different, as once I crossed the Park St. bridge, I just put it on autopilot and let it happen. (By the way, the bridge was once again quite wet and very slippery, just as it was two weeks ago when four of us slid on its wet metal grid in a chain reaction crash. I ran some tests on the surface today and am alarmed at how treacherous the wet steel is. Be very careful in these conditions.) Somewhere between the Embarcadero and Laney College, sitting forlornly on the sidewalk conducting a one-man junk sale was a crusty old denizen of the streets who seemed to glare at me as I approached. I turned to him and said "Happy New Year!" and he smiled a toothy grin, waved, and returned the greeting. That was a molecule of joy, right there.
So I found myself in short order at Claremont Peet's, had a nice cup of Joe, and surveyed the clouds, noting some brightness here and there. I proceeded to ride up Tunnel Road, and at some point I rode into the bottom of the clouds and things got very misty and foggy. I like these conditions, they stir rare emotions within me. The fog and mist is dramatic, perhaps the wet grayness fires dormant genetic memories of Scottish moors visited by my ancestors, and I feel at home here. At any rate I carried on along Skyline, and came to the intersection of Pinehurst, which was socked in with fog, but not thinking twice, I plunged, carefully, oh so carefully, down into the ravine.
As I descended, I thought of riders I know who have crashed on this steep, twisty section. Wet pavement, mud, gravel, twigs and branches, and perhaps even moss all pose individual or collective hazards to the bike rider. So I went very slowly, the feeling of sliding out on the bridge still fresh in my muscle memory. Half way down I caught up to two other riders, both descending very slowly. I didn't care to pass so I followed behind. The second rider, a young, lanky guy, was wearing only summer kit, no arm or leg warmers, no jacket, no knit hat. He was shivering like a drenched cat, in fact I could see his front wheel oscillating in time with his spasming arms. Oh, and no helmet. He may have been a fine rider, but at this moment I considered him something of an idiot for not being prepared for these conditions. I followed them around the last hairpin corner and expected them to go, but they didn't, so I went left to pass, calling out. When I called out left, Mr. Freeze veered left, which made me run over a Bott's dot (those yellow pyramid reflectors), and I knew the hit was too sharp, and frozen guy was like " oh, sorry, sorry" and my front tire instantly deflated from a pinch flat, but I rode it to the next pull out. I pulled over to repair and these two asked if I needed help. Somewhat exasperated, I told them to go....just go.
But then proceeded an entertaining series of riders going by all asking if I needed help, I mean, really asking, looking concerned, slowing down, etc. One sage, obviously experienced graybeard rode up---you know, could be a Fred, a Shel, a Nideker--- stopped, and started holding forth about WHAT A GREAT DAY it was, and how he only rides up Pinehurst in these conditions, but then how it was like summer, only with fog. He told a story of someone he knows that crashed badly descending, hit some slimy corner, and took out an eye socket with the top of his brake hood, altering his life forever. (Ya...thanks for sharing that.) He finished by saying "its a crime against nature not to appreciate nature!", and then rode off stating he was getting cold. Two more roadies came by, offered their help, and I came up with the perfect response "Ya! could you pump this up for me?" holding up the deflated wheel. They laughed. You could not have scripted this 10 minute sequence of events any better.
One of the best feelings in cycling is when you resume riding after a repair. I don't know why, but its sweet, like an early parole. ( not that I'd know anything about that) But suddenly I felt the air had chilled and was blowing through my layers as I was coasting downhill, but knew some climbing was ahead, so all was good. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider's cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
I flashed back to the last time I stopped at one of these roadside memorials, last summer, at the top of Dublin grade. I read about it in the paper: a young couple, the driver, a boy, the girl the passenger, the car, a Corvette, driving too fast, out of control, crashed killing them both. That day had been two weeks since that crash, and the flowers had dried and started blowing away in the wind. Ribbons on the chain link fence were starting to tatter, and this entropy of the memorial added another layer of sadness to this piece of doomed real estate.
I jolted back to Pinehurst in the present, I passed this new memorial, slowed, and turned around and went back to look at it. It was eerily still and quiet, the light a diffuse gray everywhere but coming from nowhere. The trees softly dripped beads of dew upon the wet ground. I leaned my bike against the barbed wire fence and walked over to the memorial. The flowers were fresh. Among other tributes were two sheets of paper, handwritten, a couple of Hallmark cards, the Raider's cap on the fencepost. The sheets of paper were soaking wet and the ink was running looking like the tears of those left behind. I picked up one soggy paper, printed in elementary school letters, which read "Dear Dad, I love you with all my heart. I hope you have fun at the Biscuit Farm (unreadable), love, (child's name). A card read " Dad, I miss you so much, thinking of you always", love (older child) Pinned to the cap was a photo of a young girl with the words "Go Raiders!"
I stepped forward and looked over the edge of the road---at least 20 feet straight down to the creek. A large fallen tree trunk lay across the stream, with green shards of safety glass all over it. To my left, a large opening in the barbed wire fence, the earth torn, to my right and on the other side of the redwood tree, scuffed earth, muddy footprints, the path the recovery crew took down to the wrecked car. Burned out flairs in the road, oil absorbing sand lying on the asphalt like desert islands. I began to see how it all happened, a picture emerged in my mind, a likely scenario:
Christopher Martin was driving home in the dark heading west on Pinehurst, perhaps a tad too quickly, when something happened. Perhaps his phone rang and he looked down to see who was calling. When he looked up, he saw a deer in the road, frozen in the glare of the headlights. Without thinking, he swerved left, braked, but there was no shoulder, and instantly his Honda was airborne, pitching forward, his headlights illuminating the fallen tree, his final resting place. Did his life flash before his eyes? What was his last thought? Maybe only something as mundane as "OH SHIT!!!?" Maybe it happened this way, but if it didn't then probably some similar unfortunate series of circumstances led to his demise.
As I stood there piecing together the evidence, a Camry going west stopped in the road. A woman got out and walked over quickly. She gasped as she took in the memorial. I said, "Something unfortunate happened". She put her hand over her mouth as she read the words "Christopher Martin". " Oh...My...God!" she muttered under her hand. I asked her if she knew him and she nodded, saying she taught his child at the school. I asked if he was a Canyon resident and she nodded and replied enigmatically, "There has been Too Much of this lately", then quickly turned away and drove off. I stood there a while longer. A few other cyclists whizzed by, heads down, oblivious to the significance of this spot.
If I had been leading a group ride in this same place, I might not have noticed the memorial, or if I had, I probably would not have stopped: group dynamics as it were. A ride leader wouldn't just stop to check something out. In a solo situation it's different.
I turned back towards the way I came. I didn't feel right continuing on the way I was going so I rode back through Canyon, and just on the outskirts of town, I spied a deer antler lying on the side of the road
But I'm getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning. Actually, I should backtrack a bit and start my story around the second half of December of 2009. This is the seminal point where my holiday merrymaking got up a full head of steam and I bounced from event to event, party to party, eating and drinking well, all the while getting in solid bike rides in between. I was sated, I am still sated, and being sated is not conducive to getting up early when it is cold and riding my bike. Thus I have been sleeping deeply and riding at a later hour, which puts me out there solo sometimes. Solo riding leads to interesting situations. Situations such as today, when I was riding through Canyon and discovered the spot where Christopher Martin died, just a few days ago.More...
When I go out for a solo ride I often have a rough plan of where I want to venture to. Today was a little different, as once I crossed the Park St. bridge, I just put it on autopilot and let it happen. (By the way, the bridge was once again quite wet and very slippery, just as it was two weeks ago when four of us slid on its wet metal grid in a chain reaction crash. I ran some tests on the surface today and am alarmed at how treacherous the wet steel is. Be very careful in these conditions.) Somewhere between the Embarcadero and Laney College, sitting forlornly on the sidewalk conducting a one-man junk sale was a crusty old denizen of the streets who seemed to glare at me as I approached. I turned to him and said "Happy New Year!" and he smiled a toothy grin, waved, and returned the greeting. That was a molecule of joy, right there.
So I found myself in short order at Claremont Peet's, had a nice cup of Joe, and surveyed the clouds, noting some brightness here and there. I proceeded to ride up Tunnel Road, and at some point I rode into the bottom of the clouds and things got very misty and foggy. I like these conditions, they stir rare emotions within me. The fog and mist is dramatic, perhaps the wet grayness fires dormant genetic memories of Scottish moors visited by my ancestors, and I feel at home here. At any rate I carried on along Skyline, and came to the intersection of Pinehurst, which was socked in with fog, but not thinking twice, I plunged, carefully, oh so carefully, down into the ravine.
As I descended, I thought of riders I know who have crashed on this steep, twisty section. Wet pavement, mud, gravel, twigs and branches, and perhaps even moss all pose individual or collective hazards to the bike rider. So I went very slowly, the feeling of sliding out on the bridge still fresh in my muscle memory. Half way down I caught up to two other riders, both descending very slowly. I didn't care to pass so I followed behind. The second rider, a young, lanky guy, was wearing only summer kit, no arm or leg warmers, no jacket, no knit hat. He was shivering like a drenched cat, in fact I could see his front wheel oscillating in time with his spasming arms. Oh, and no helmet. He may have been a fine rider, but at this moment I considered him something of an idiot for not being prepared for these conditions. I followed them around the last hairpin corner and expected them to go, but they didn't, so I went left to pass, calling out. When I called out left, Mr. Freeze veered left, which made me run over a Bott's dot (those yellow pyramid reflectors), and I knew the hit was too sharp, and frozen guy was like " oh, sorry, sorry" and my front tire instantly deflated from a pinch flat, but I rode it to the next pull out. I pulled over to repair and these two asked if I needed help. Somewhat exasperated, I told them to go....just go.
But then proceeded an entertaining series of riders going by all asking if I needed help, I mean, really asking, looking concerned, slowing down, etc. One sage, obviously experienced graybeard rode up---you know, could be a Fred, a Shel, a Nideker--- stopped, and started holding forth about WHAT A GREAT DAY it was, and how he only rides up Pinehurst in these conditions, but then how it was like summer, only with fog. He told a story of someone he knows that crashed badly descending, hit some slimy corner, and took out an eye socket with the top of his brake hood, altering his life forever. (Ya...thanks for sharing that.) He finished by saying "its a crime against nature not to appreciate nature!", and then rode off stating he was getting cold. Two more roadies came by, offered their help, and I came up with the perfect response "Ya! could you pump this up for me?" holding up the deflated wheel. They laughed. You could not have scripted this 10 minute sequence of events any better.
One of the best feelings in cycling is when you resume riding after a repair. I don't know why, but its sweet, like an early parole. ( not that I'd know anything about that) But suddenly I felt the air had chilled and was blowing through my layers as I was coasting downhill, but knew some climbing was ahead, so all was good. I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree. I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider's cap on a fence post. I knew what this meant, what it always means: someone had died here, and it looked very recent.
I flashed back to the last time I stopped at one of these roadside memorials, last summer, at the top of Dublin grade. I read about it in the paper: a young couple, the driver, a boy, the girl the passenger, the car, a Corvette, driving too fast, out of control, crashed killing them both. That day had been two weeks since that crash, and the flowers had dried and started blowing away in the wind. Ribbons on the chain link fence were starting to tatter, and this entropy of the memorial added another layer of sadness to this piece of doomed real estate.
I jolted back to Pinehurst in the present, I passed this new memorial, slowed, and turned around and went back to look at it. It was eerily still and quiet, the light a diffuse gray everywhere but coming from nowhere. The trees softly dripped beads of dew upon the wet ground. I leaned my bike against the barbed wire fence and walked over to the memorial. The flowers were fresh. Among other tributes were two sheets of paper, handwritten, a couple of Hallmark cards, the Raider's cap on the fencepost. The sheets of paper were soaking wet and the ink was running looking like the tears of those left behind. I picked up one soggy paper, printed in elementary school letters, which read "Dear Dad, I love you with all my heart. I hope you have fun at the Biscuit Farm (unreadable), love, (child's name). A card read " Dad, I miss you so much, thinking of you always", love (older child) Pinned to the cap was a photo of a young girl with the words "Go Raiders!"
I stepped forward and looked over the edge of the road---at least 20 feet straight down to the creek. A large fallen tree trunk lay across the stream, with green shards of safety glass all over it. To my left, a large opening in the barbed wire fence, the earth torn, to my right and on the other side of the redwood tree, scuffed earth, muddy footprints, the path the recovery crew took down to the wrecked car. Burned out flairs in the road, oil absorbing sand lying on the asphalt like desert islands. I began to see how it all happened, a picture emerged in my mind, a likely scenario:
Christopher Martin was driving home in the dark heading west on Pinehurst, perhaps a tad too quickly, when something happened. Perhaps his phone rang and he looked down to see who was calling. When he looked up, he saw a deer in the road, frozen in the glare of the headlights. Without thinking, he swerved left, braked, but there was no shoulder, and instantly his Honda was airborne, pitching forward, his headlights illuminating the fallen tree, his final resting place. Did his life flash before his eyes? What was his last thought? Maybe only something as mundane as "OH SHIT!!!?" Maybe it happened this way, but if it didn't then probably some similar unfortunate series of circumstances led to his demise.
As I stood there piecing together the evidence, a Camry going west stopped in the road. A woman got out and walked over quickly. She gasped as she took in the memorial. I said, "Something unfortunate happened". She put her hand over her mouth as she read the words "Christopher Martin". " Oh...My...God!" she muttered under her hand. I asked her if she knew him and she nodded, saying she taught his child at the school. I asked if he was a Canyon resident and she nodded and replied enigmatically, "There has been Too Much of this lately", then quickly turned away and drove off. I stood there a while longer. A few other cyclists whizzed by, heads down, oblivious to the significance of this spot.
If I had been leading a group ride in this same place, I might not have noticed the memorial, or if I had, I probably would not have stopped: group dynamics as it were. A ride leader wouldn't just stop to check something out. In a solo situation it's different.
I turned back towards the way I came. I didn't feel right continuing on the way I was going so I rode back through Canyon, and just on the outskirts of town, I spied a deer antler lying on the side of the road
amidst the branches and leaves. I stopped and picked it up: it's about a foot long, with one fork at the end. I could see the pink area at its stump where it had been recently attached to the deer's skull. I thought that Cathy would like this for her office to compliment her birds nests, owl wings, and other organic nature/shamanistic type totems. So I put it in my back pocket, thinking about seasons changing, molting of horns, the cycle of life, how death can be as close as your shadow sometimes.
After the first hairpin turn climbing out of the canyon, I encountered a weary wayward recycler pushing his laden shopping cart. Yes, up Pinehurst, plastic bags full of cans overhanging the cart. The guy looked like a lumberjack, and I really was wondering what was going on, but didn't want to stop and talk, so I simply smiled and exclaimed "Happy New Year!" He perked up, replied in kind, and a little wiener dog in his cart popped up from beneath the cans and bottles to yap at me.
Back in Oakland, down by Laney College, an older, semi-toothless denizen of the streets was riding his beat up bike in a meandering fashion across the intersection at Foothill while I was waiting for the light to change. He looked right at me, so once again, I said "Happy New Year!" He lit up, pulled alongside, and gleefully started chatting me up. "My buddy was goin' to da dumps, and he say, you want dis bike? So I say HELL YES, and here I am, heh, heh!" He was so proud of his rolling treasure. I looked at the old mountain bike, the rear half brush painted red, the front half black, and it looked all there, it had handlebars, both wheels and a seat, so I said "It's beautiful man!" He beamed, the light changed, and I rode away. Another molecule of joy.
There were many lessons presented in today's ride. I'm still sorting it all out. The main lesson I think is: be observant, take in what you see, open up to life, live each day to the fullest, spread good vibes around, especially to those who need it most. Love your family while you can.
Ride on my friends, and be careful out there.
Flash
*************
Official media story from the Contra Costa Times website:
Body of Missing Canyon Man Found in Crashed Car in Creekbed
By Roman Gokhman
Contra Costa Times
Posted: 12/29/2009 03:41:32 PM PST
Updated: 12/30/2009 06:38:56 AM PST
CANYON — A 48-year-old man reported missing Monday night was found dead this afternoon in a crashed car, the California Highway Patrol said.
The victim, identified as Christopher Martin, was expected to return home at 9 p.m. and when he did not show up some time later, his wife reported him missing, CHP Officer Tom Maguire said. Contra Costa sheriff's deputies searched for him along his driving route on Pinehurst Drive and found his 1998 black Honda Civic hatchback upside down about 50 feet off the road a half-mile north of Canyon Road at 2:50 p.m.
Investigators believe the Civic crashed and tore down a 25-foot section of barbed-wire fence before dropping into a creek bed and rolling over.
The CHP has ruled out alcohol as a contributing factor in the crash but were not sure Tuesday evening what went wrong. Martin's family told investigators he had a medical condition that may have played a role, Maguire said.
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After the first hairpin turn climbing out of the canyon, I encountered a weary wayward recycler pushing his laden shopping cart. Yes, up Pinehurst, plastic bags full of cans overhanging the cart. The guy looked like a lumberjack, and I really was wondering what was going on, but didn't want to stop and talk, so I simply smiled and exclaimed "Happy New Year!" He perked up, replied in kind, and a little wiener dog in his cart popped up from beneath the cans and bottles to yap at me.
Back in Oakland, down by Laney College, an older, semi-toothless denizen of the streets was riding his beat up bike in a meandering fashion across the intersection at Foothill while I was waiting for the light to change. He looked right at me, so once again, I said "Happy New Year!" He lit up, pulled alongside, and gleefully started chatting me up. "My buddy was goin' to da dumps, and he say, you want dis bike? So I say HELL YES, and here I am, heh, heh!" He was so proud of his rolling treasure. I looked at the old mountain bike, the rear half brush painted red, the front half black, and it looked all there, it had handlebars, both wheels and a seat, so I said "It's beautiful man!" He beamed, the light changed, and I rode away. Another molecule of joy.
There were many lessons presented in today's ride. I'm still sorting it all out. The main lesson I think is: be observant, take in what you see, open up to life, live each day to the fullest, spread good vibes around, especially to those who need it most. Love your family while you can.
Ride on my friends, and be careful out there.
Flash
*************
Official media story from the Contra Costa Times website:
Body of Missing Canyon Man Found in Crashed Car in Creekbed
By Roman Gokhman
Contra Costa Times
Posted: 12/29/2009 03:41:32 PM PST
Updated: 12/30/2009 06:38:56 AM PST
CANYON — A 48-year-old man reported missing Monday night was found dead this afternoon in a crashed car, the California Highway Patrol said.
The victim, identified as Christopher Martin, was expected to return home at 9 p.m. and when he did not show up some time later, his wife reported him missing, CHP Officer Tom Maguire said. Contra Costa sheriff's deputies searched for him along his driving route on Pinehurst Drive and found his 1998 black Honda Civic hatchback upside down about 50 feet off the road a half-mile north of Canyon Road at 2:50 p.m.
Investigators believe the Civic crashed and tore down a 25-foot section of barbed-wire fence before dropping into a creek bed and rolling over.
The CHP has ruled out alcohol as a contributing factor in the crash but were not sure Tuesday evening what went wrong. Martin's family told investigators he had a medical condition that may have played a role, Maguire said.
***************************
