[TLDR: Chris’s ride Saturday, Camino Tassajara, had five riders and one more who arrived late, did the ride, but never caught up with us. Beautiful sunny day in the mid-80s. Company was fabulous. I got dropped several times and ended the day limping home with cramps.]

Yesterday I made a last-minute decision to participate in a club ride, Chris’s ride out Highland Avenue deep in Contra Costa County, where I live. I haven’t been riding much. The distance of 44 miles was too much considering how little I’ve been riding but I did it anyway knowing that the likely result was going to be some kind of discomfort. It was a question merely which kind: fatigue, sudden weakness, cramps, butt pain, etc.

Some things turned out the way I expected and a few things didn’t. Starting from home and riding to the start in Walnut Creek was [pun intended] a non-starter; I just don’t have the stamina. So I took BART to WC instead. Chris was already there doing the ride leader thing, checking people in. He also had a new-to-him carbon bike, a chic brand, Cervelo. A new-to-me member, Dan, showed up wearing old-school togs, a t-shirt and regular shorts but a new-school carbon bike. I’m glad there’s at least one person in the club who isn’t beholden to standard bike drag. I should follow his lead but I’m too much of a fred to change. Lamberto, a fellow Contra Costan, newly inspired by his half-marathon success and wanting to ride more, also came along. Soon another new-to-me member, Alison from SF, arrived by BART. Cathy was the only missing person. She’s very reliable in arriving on time. Chris texted her and found out she was running late stuck in traffic. So we said we’d meet her at the Peet’s in Danville.

I don’t know where Chris got this route, a run down to Danville and out to Carneal and back. My suspicion is that it’s a Nancy Yu route. Anyway he wasn’t too familiar with it but it was old hat for me. Lamberto and I guided the group out of WC to Danville Boulevard and then it was same old, same old. Everyone was riding faster than I, not only eager to get going but probably because they all had been riding more. I knew I had to take it carefully. Various Saturday speedsters went past me. I kept up only because the stoplights slowed everyone else.

Danville Boulevard is the standard run in the San Ramon Valley because it’s flat, long, and has wide bike lanes. Traffic can be tragic during the commute hours when omnipresent clogs on I-680 send drivers onto surface streets, namely Danville Blvd. because it parallels the freeway from Sunol all the way to Martinez. On weekends it’s fine unless there’s an accident on I-680. I’ve done it a billion times. Shockingly it’s not entirely developed. Yet. There is still one privately owned open space, quite large, that fronts on the freeway in San Ramon. Two nearby ranches are now huge mega subdivisions full of nondescript California brutalist homes, each on tiny lots. Daly City comes to San Ramon. (“Little Boxes“)

Peet’s in Danville was hopping with cyclists. In Danville there is also a Starbucks three blocks before Peet’s yet somehow the Peet’s has become the cyclists’ stop. Why is that? Across the street is Maison Benoit, a truly excellent French bakery and that would have been my choice, at least for a morning carb coma. It was very busy with Danvillians dosing on cappuchinos and kouign amann. For the gluten-free crowd Life is Sweet is nearby as well. In the David Gaus era Starbucks was the club injection clinic. Every ride David led included a Starbucks somewhere along the route, usually more than one. Interestingly almost all the cyclists at Peet’s were my age, which is to say miraculously still alive. I guess the young freds find Peet’s too retro for their taste.

We waited for Cathy, gabbing all the time. Dan emerged with two drinks. Now that’s hydration! Chris, Alison, and I were chatting about rides, Western Wheelers, and the lack of cycling clubs in San Francisco. Cathy still hadn’t shown up. Had she passed us? Perhaps because we were in front of Peet’s and the back is adjacent to the Iron Horse trail, which she might have taken. After a very long break we decided to leave and perhaps we’d run into her.

The section of the Iron Horse just south of Danville Boulevard has looked like a scene out of the movie Tremors, which is to say cratered and heaved up by alien creatures. The East Bay Regional Parks District, which controls the Iron Horse, finally repaired that section so that it is gloriously smooth asphalt, The District is responsible for a lot of MUPs over here and if all their MUPs were to be repaired at once it would have no money left for things like park maintenance, trail repair, fire mitigation—you know, the unimportant stuff.

We were off-route and Chris was unsure where to go; but I did. So we took my shortcut. Heading out Sycamore Valley Road everyone raced ahead while I soldiered on. We did a pit stop at a small park I had never been to just off Crow Canyon, Diablo Vista Park. Nice park, bathrooms only okay. Sycamore becomes Camino Tassajara but it’s all Danville, which is to say one labyrinth of relatively new housing developments after another. Even in recent history there have been working ranches along it within the city limits of Danville. There seems to be just one left now; the adjacent ranch just had a slew of new homes erected on its burial ground.

Eventually you hit the real Urban Limit Line, just outside the city limit of Danville at the edge of Blackhawk Ranch. Development suddenly stops and it’s ranches and a few vineyards tucked away. Until then we had been riding in the suburbs. Riding in the suburbs is an acquired taste, kind of like Saccharin. It’s usually better than riding in the city. It vaguely at times resembles riding in ‘natural’ areas. There are suburbs and there are suburbs. Alison mentioned that this part of the East Bay is totally different from riding on the Peninsula yet both are suburban areas. The Midpeninsula and Contra Costa have some commonalities: both were previously agricultural areas that became urbanized as the Bay Area grew rapidly. Tech and aerospace in the 1960s put the nail in the coffin for agriculture in the Midpeninsula; in Contra Costa it was demand for housing due to growth in the inner Bay Area. In the earlier days of the club I remember doing club rides in what is now Danville and it was mostly ranches. The Midpeninsula is about as developed as it can be. That isn’t the case with Contra Costa. Yet. Fortunately voters out here reaffirmed the Urban Limit Line this year in an election.

Having an Urban Limit Line doesn’t mean an area is pristine. In the case of Camino Tassajara, it’s a major cut-through route for commuters stuck on westbound I-580. Denizens of the “outer Bay Area”—Tracy, Manteca, and Patterson—who commute in either to Silicon Valley or San Francisco get jammed at the I-680/I-580 interchange. Camino Tassajara allows those heading to SF to zip around the interchange and get back on I-680 North. Camino Tassajara is fairly straight so cars blast along as quickly as they can. There is a shoulder but it’s still disconcerting to be passed by cars going over 60 mph.

But it was a Saturday so instead of angry, impatient commuters we were being passed by the “normal” traffic, still going 50 mph. Turning onto Highland we at last settled into the real rural Contra Costa, not the suburbs. I prefer to ride out there in the winter and early spring because the rains convert those dun colored hills into something you’d see in Ireland, a green paradise. We had a series of rides in western Contra Costa I called “Green, Green”—Mines, Altamont, Highland, Collier Canyon, Patterson Pass—because of their unworldly beauty. Yet even while brown the hills can be interesting. On a day like today with brilliant fall sunshine the contrast between the blue sky and the brown grasses with oak trees scattered against the hills was entrancing. They waited for me at the turn up Collier Canyon. There is very little traffic on Collier or Carneal, a stray commuter or maybe a farm vehilce. We saw no cars.

Lamberto remembered riding out there on a club ride long ago. I said it was likely a Morgan Territory ride because the return to Camino Tassajara is via Highland.

The return back to Camino Tassajara was surprisingly pleasant despite the light headwind. The prevailing wind is usually out of the west or northwest making the inbound leg harder than the outbound. So far I was doing okay despite the length. Once we turned onto Camino Tassajara the leg cramps hit, a combination of failing to drink adequately, the 85F temperature, and a long ride. I would have drunk more but my water bottle cap broke earlier on, making it difficult to drink. Luckily I had packed two vials of pickle juice. I waved everyone on and told them I’d meet them at Sultan’s Kebab. The pickle juice worked right away and after a brief respite I continued. For some reason Chris waited for me and I had to tell him just to go. I knew I had to go at my own pace especially with the headwind.

It’s a drop from the Urban Limit Line down to Danville so I was able to coast much of it. The rest of the riders weren’t having much luck with the stoplights and I eventually caught up. I had a minor equipment mishap and had to stop to fix it, and off the group went. I took the shortcut to Sultan’s Kebab and got there first. And I waited and waited. Apparently the group was waiting for me! I texted and called Chris and Lamberto but they had figured it out and arrived shortly.

Sultan’s Kebab has become the lunch stop in Danville in recent years. For decades it was instead Domenico’s, which is across the street. I love their sandwiches and salads and apparently so does the rest of the club because there was never any dissent about going there. Then it became increasingly popular and the lunch line started to go out the door. They also do a lively business with phone-ahead orders. The result has been long waits and no tables. They opened a pizza/ice cream business next door but that only made things worse. (Unless you like pizza more than sandwiches.) The decision to prioritize phone orders ahead of the customers standing in the doorway puzzled me at first. But it actually makes sense. The phone orders will likely continue to patronize Domenico’s because it’s no wait, no fuss. It’s also orderly for the business since you can inform the customer of the pickup time. The read-between-the-lines message for the walk-in customer is to phone in your order so you don’t have to wait. For us Domenico’s became “Demon-ico’s”.

As much as I think that business decision is logical, it’s difficult for cyclists because you don’t know exactly when you’ll arrive nor do you have the convenience of knowing what’s fresh or special that day. So that contributed to my decision to increasingly skip Domenico’s. When Sultan’s Kebab opened next door, it was a happy occurence. I had eaten at the original Sultan’s Kebab in Pleasanton years ago and liked it. This was their second outpost. I have never been there at lunch time and had an unruly wait or trouble getting a table, even for a group. But is the food that good at Domenicos? Yes, and I’m like an impatient two-year old when hungry. Never growing up means you’re an ass to be around.

We walked right into Sultan’s Kebab and ordered. We had our pick of the tables too with our bikes conveniently nestled in front. Why do I even bother to look at their menu? I always order the same thing, a falafel plate. I was contemplating breaking the habit when Alison asked what was good here. I told her falafel and that’s all she wrote. Alison and I ended up at the same table and the boys were at the other. She and I had a long, variegated conversation about living in SF versus elsewhere; how SF has changed and the mystery of how young people continue to flood the City while rents continue to go up; club getaway trips; the difficulty of riding somewhere safe, interesting, and scenic when you live in SF and don’t want to drive somewhere to start your ride; and of course, cycling in Japan of which I continue to prosyletize shamelessly.

Cathy never showed up. Now we were worried. It reminded me of when Nancy got lost on the SF-to-SJ last year and we waited forever and couldn’t reach her by phone. Was she in a ditch by the road? Had she gone rogue and ridden off to LA? Where was she? There was nothing to do but ride on and hope Cathy was okay.

The route back was on the Iron Horse Trail at a chill pace. It didn’t matter: shortly a nasty, ugly set of cramps lit into my legs like a hungry wolf leaping onto a lamb. Thinking pickle juice would save the day I waved the group on. Down went the second vial of pickle juice and a rest at Hemme Station. It didn’t work. As soon as I started to ride they recurred. I was badly crippled as continuing to ride only made it worse. I had to stop several times in order to get the cramps to desist temporarily. Somehow I made it back to WC BART but it was slow.

The group was long gone but Lamberto called to make sure I was okay. “Yeah, I’m fine and at the BART station.” The train came, I got on, and nine minutes later I was in Orinda. There were no other bikes in the car and it wasn’t crowded. At Lafayette three cyclists got on. As we approached Orinda one quickly got up and got his huge e-bike in front of the exit door. Then I understood: he knows where the elevator is in Orinda as do I: it’s directly in front of the third boarding spot, which is why I had boarded the second car. (The nine-car trains stop at the second boarding spot. Hence…) He wanted to get in the elevator first because he knows like I do that most BART elevators are hella slow. Sure enough he zipped to the elevator in front of which some miscreant was rolling a spliff and lighting it up to enjoy a high while waiting for his train. The e-biker got on first and I had a long wait for the lift to return.

BART’s narrative, especially with the upcoming Measure R, is that crime, disorderliness, and filth having diminished since the new fare gates have been put in and the police are riding the trains again. Well, I got news for BART: it might not be as rampant but it’s not gone. The cars are definitely cleaner. I haven’t gotten on a train in the last year that was covered with food debris, had cola (or urine) spilled on the floor, or smelled foul, which used to be de rigueur before. But I haven’t seen BART police on a train or at a station platform yet. They’re all hiding somewhere scrolling on their phones reading about the miraculous downturn of crime on BART. While waiting at the BART fare gates in Walnut Creek I saw two people defeat the new fare gates. One slid under it on his stomach. The other easily tailgated another person who had no idea she was being followed so closely. The station agent was absorbed by his phone and either had no idea they had gotten through illicitly or he was just not going to get involved since there weren’t any BART police nearby to be summoned anyway. If that’s BART’s concept of enforcement, why don’t they just fire all the police and the station agents and save the money? Now, why am I voting for Measure R?

I got to Orinda and Roger met me with the car so I didn’t have to go up the 13% grade to the house. What a relief!

I emailed Cathy and got the story. She got stuck in traffic getting to WC and decided to meet up with us at lunch. Then she missed the turn on Collier Canyon Road and ended up in Livermore. Oops. Ten extra miles. She thought we’d be gone from Sultan’s Kebab by the time she reached it. So she just skipped it altogether and went back to her car.

In retrospect it’s easy to say “it was worth it”. But boy, those leg cramps sure hurt. Nice ride though and it was in my neck of the woods and it was a group of good riding companions for the day even if I mostly just saw them from afar. So, “it was worth it!”

This month we broke the mold of the HHITEB by starting in Moraga instead of Lafayette and pedaled an astounding (!) fifteen miles instead of ten. Whew. All of this epoch-breaking, era-ending change was so we could check out Canyon Club Brewery for dinner. Unfortunately Roger and I couldn’t personally vet this haunt before the ride so we were blindly treading into possibly dangerous territory. A meal at a brewery? This could end badly for all concerned. Getting blasted and fine dining, I’m not sure those two concepts go together. But when you’re toasted doesn’t everything taste delish?

We met at the Canyon Club Brewery but minus Joe. Joe and Lamberto had been showing out-of-town guests around San Francisco when in a moment of inattention Joe twisted his ankle while walking and turning to gaze at something that caught his attention. Hmm, pray tell what was it? (Or who was he?) Of course he consulted that well-known medical expert, Alexa, whether he should do the ride. That hussy in a reassuring, soothing voice urged him to rest his ankle instead of Doing the Right Thing, which is “no pain, no gain”! Joe, everybody knows: “That which does not kill me makes me stronger”, or something like that. That aphorism is attributed to the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzche, another well-known medical expert. (Note: He likely died of advanced syphilis.)

So the four of us—Lamberto, Roger S, Roger H, and I—headed to Orinda for the first leg. The road between Moraga and Orinda is Moraga Way. It’s a two-lane road surprisingly often with heavy traffic. But for most of it’s length—minus the short bridge over the San Pablo Creek—it has decent bike lanes and they’re even maintained (!). The houses that line both sides of the road get an unwelcome symphony of moving traffic daylong as this little road has become a congested thoroughfare funneling umpteen thousand commuters. It amazes me because Moraga hardly has any commercial development and is a sleepy ‘semi-rural’ suburb. But it does have St. Mary’s College and a couple of high schools. I am guessing that most of the cars are just denizens heading to and from work or running errands. The as-yet little known controversy is that both Orinda and Moraga have to increase their populations per the state’s fiat to Develop Housing or Else We’ll Develop It For You. But both towns are in extreme high fire zones, about as bad as possible. This means that evacuation routes for all these people have to work or else after a fire they’ll both look like the remains of Pompeii. And what is the main evacuation route? Moraga Way. That will mean that those bike lanes may be on borrowed time and we cyclists will be back to Frogger again. The dream option is to expand the width by encroaching on the homeowners in order to add a third lane and keeping the bike lanes. That ain’t gonna happen without some serious eminent domain.

The argument that development won’t increase traffic might work in cities. But it hasn’t so far: folks living in complexes without car parking still have cars and are just parking on the street, transit or not, and driving like crazy. Would this work in the suburbs like Moraga? Yeah, it’s laughable. Everybody is gonna have at least one car, usually two. The commuter bus from Moraga to BART is usually quite empty except for some high school students. Moraga Way has a 35 MPH speed limit, which is more traffic advice that is ignored. Moraga Way may once have been quiet but now it’s anything but.

Nevertheless we marched on with Roger S eager and chomping at the bit. It was during the commute but compared to many days, today’s traffic was tolerable. Roger zoomed ahead and the rest of us kept getting stuck at lights. Add a burgeoning headwind and catching him was hardly a ‘chill’ pace.

Once in Orinda we cut through its tiny downtown and headed up the St. Stephen’s Trail, our local MUP. Back on the streets we were passed by lots of cars on the frontage road to Highway 24, escapees from the jammed lanes on the highway. Only after we got to Lafayette did things calm down. Then we were back on the Lamorinda trail and it was oh-so peaceful as usual. It’s such a refuge from the traffic chaos happening all around.

We did a slight deviation to take a bathroom break at the Lafayette Community Center. You’d think a town community center would be, well, in the center of town. But not Lafayette: the community center is at the edge of town and a long walk away from anything else. It’s a former elementary school that has been upgraded with a large hall. There are also the ubiquitous pickleball courts in addition to bocce and horseshoes/cornhole toss areas. Speaking of cornhole, do you remember the cornhole toss at the club picnic in Golden Gate Park before the Pandemic? That topic came up at dinner. Wanderson was in charge of games and he brought his dildos for the cornhole toss. The mind boggles.

The community center has clean, spacious bathrooms all freshly improved. The sink has mood lighting in the basin. The children’s play area beckoned but we hurried on to dinner and skipped the slide.

Joe met us at Canyon Club Brewery with a guest of honor, their oh-so-kawai dog Oliver. I hadn’t seen Oliver since two OPPs ago. Apparently Oliver has serious medical issues and that he is still alive and chipper is a good thing. Which is worse, outliving your pet and having to see him/her suffer and die or your pet outliving you and having to worry how s/he will be well taken care of? I’ve been through the former and it’s dreadful. The thought of the latter prevents me from taking on another one.

Having seen how crowded the very cozy outdoor patio was when I checked out the place, I was concerned we’d be crowded out. So I made a reservation and that turned out to be entirely unnecessary for a Wednesday evening. There were plenty of people and their dogs but there was plenty of table space; the fire pits were busy with eyes glued to the FIFA match on the big screen above. Ordering is very modern: scan the QR code on your table and select your meal items and beverages, then pay by the Internet. A human being does deliver your goodies. A few years ago we were on tour from Nagasaki to Hiroshima and we stopped at a seaside restaurant. Same basic deal except that your meal was brought to your table by a robot! Japan is way ahead of us in robots. I’m guessing that the declining population in Japan especially in the rural areas means it’s hard to find employees. So robots.

Joe and Lamberto eagerly scanned the list of beers. What caught their attention was a 3.2 lager. 3.2 beer? I remember that! In days of yore in Colorado if you were eighteen, you could drink 3.2 beer. I haven’t seen 3.2 in ages and the Canyon Club makes its own version called “Cold is a Flavor”. They sipped and adjudged it to be very smooth and tasty, the low alcohol notwithstanding.The rest of us forwent a beer.

The dinner menu was rather lengthy for a beer joint. Three of us settled on the fish and chips, Roger S got a burger, and Joe got a “brewery platter” consisting of mishmosh of noshes including three pretzels, German potato pancakes—they were square!—and bratwurst. Oliver immediately sat at attention giving him that look, “Daddy, please please please! I’m a good boy!” It’s hard to look after the health of your dog when you have to be the bad guy, isn’t it?

The fish and chips was excellent. It can be such a plain dish, kinda like mediocre pizza, but when it’s done well it can be transporting. I was transported. It’s such a contradiction too: mega deep fried food to clog your arteries but fish to cleanse them. Roger S shrugged and said his burger was nothing special. But he liked the fries. So did I—they were crisp and crunchy and artery clogging.

Joe and Lamberto loved the lager and asked one of the wait staff if it was sold in cans or bottles. Nope. But you can get it in a growler to take home. Disappointed faces. I suppose you could get a growler and chug it in the privacy of your home and thereby get the benefit of freshly tapped beer. At least you wouldn’t be driving home smashed—you could just safely pass out on your sofa.

Dinner conversation was strangely medical. Yeah, when together old farts always opine on the latest physical ailments, health catastrophes, and doctor admonitions. We never talked about that when we were younger except to brag about our crashes and road rash. Lamberto and Joe are on a real health kick since retirement. I know exactly what they’re going through. When I retired I was no longer eating greasy food from the student food hall, plus no longer sitting at a desk for nine hours a day. The reduction in stress did wonders for my blood pressure too. And I lost weight even though I was no longer commuting to work by bike. Now they’re prepping for a half-marathon in Canada and doing cross-training: cycling, running, hiking. And, ahem, fueling.

The main topic of discussion was diabetes and prediabetes. That and high cholesterol and blood pressure. The only thing missing was stopping smoking. Speaking of which, nowadays I don’t know of anyone in the club who smokes. If they do, they are totally in the closet. In contrast, in the early days of the club there didn’t seem to be any contradiction between doing a ride and lighting up a cig afterwards (or even before). I recall a ride where one member was riding along AND smoking a cigarette! I recently came across a picture from the very early days of the club and one of the four founders, Brady Ennis, had a cigarette in hand. I’m not sure what that means—maybe that smoking is really hard to quit or like Coke things go better with it, even cycling.

The other topic was the history of the club picnic, probably because it was uncommonly cool for Contra Costa and the picnic suffers from the same problem and also because the play areas at the community center brought up memories of Wanderson’s dildo toss. Of course, I had to opine at length about the picnic since logorrhea is my middle name and I happen to be the only person left in the club who remembers the gory details (and has the evidence). The theme of the club picnic over the years has been to find a place where it’s actually summery and people will neither freeze nor desiccate. That’s why the location has hopped from Golden Gate Park (chilly), China Camp (okay but far away), Sam P. Taylor (okay until it was swelteringly hot), Briones (was hot), Redwood Park (okay), Orinda Oaks (was incredibly hot!), Mill Valley (too shady) and now at Tunnel Tops. So far Tunnel Tops seems to be working. But like Golden Gate Park all it will take is one inclement “summer” day and the club will want to relocate to someplace warmer and sunnier. My vote is for Coyote Point down the Peninsula. Roger S pointed out that there are new parks with barbecue grills in SF near the Chase Center.

Amidst all of this Oliver was resolutely attentive yet not begging. Acting as his verbal advocate I asked Joe if any of the tidbits of bratwurst on his plate would perhaps be an appropriate reward for his inestimable patience. Joe relented and gave him some. You only have so many meals left in life.

Oliver was also the subject of attention of one toddler whose father wisely kept her at arm’s length from him. Oliver seemed unfazed by the attention. Although Oliver doesn’t bite, he does growl. He didn’t though. Joe was concerned that the young girl would strangle Oliver in a love hug or poke out his eyes.

It started to get dark. Despite the immersive conversation the plates were now bare, the glasses empty, and it was the appropriate time to bid adieu. Although it was an unusually cool evening, we did not avail ourselves of the fire pits. Everyone had extra layers to stay cozy and no one was shivering. Next time I guarantee it will be hot. We are thinking we might start our next Happy Hour ride in Walnut Creek and dine there or head down to Danville, which of course will mean having to ride after eating. I’m not sure I’m “hot” on that idea…

Alas I’m not clever enough to have coined that caption. The credit goes to Fast and Fabulous NYC, a somewhat moribund LGBTQ+ cycling club. Apropos of Roger’s and my rides I’ve stolen their motto. I don’t think that when Lance said “It’s not about the bike” that he meant it was really about the food. But maybe it is. Over many years of cycling my focus has shifted lower and lower and I’m not sure if I’ve hit bottom yet but I’m eager to find out. Over many years of cycling experiencially what I’m seeking has shifted, from PowerBars to…

I used to ride like a demon: lots of miles was never enough, fast was never fast enough, and hill intervals and big mountains were fun. Then I discovered cycle touring and it all fell apart. I was on a commercial bike tour, my first ever, and the group was mostly people like me. After two days of beating each other up, the brightest bulb in the group (as well as the fastest), a racer from Stockton, stuffed a Sony Discman and two small speakers in his jersey pocket and we went up Monte Baldo near Lake Garda listening to Pavarotti arias. We slowed down. A lot. And had a much better time. We actually looked at the scenery instead of the wheel in front of us. The combination of cycling in the mountains of Italy while listening to Pavarotti was near-perfection. Then stopping for an Italian lunch was perfection. That set the tone for the rest of the tour and forever changed how I viewed cycling and its possibilities.

Two years later we were on another cycling tour, this time in Piemonte, and every single day we stopped for a big lunch—I mean really big, like what you’d have for dinner, multiple courses—and it was never less than an hour and a half. The food was remarkable, revelatory, and the thought of regressing to Clif bars and bananas when home was absurd. I used to go on rides and stopping to refuel was a nuisance we abided. The idea of actual food when riding was superfluous. Not anymore. In the evening there was always a dinner that surpassed the lunch. Ride, eat delicious food, ride, eat even more delicious food, sleep.

The chef José Andrés said, “You really have so many meals left in life, you know.” So make the most of each one. And look forward to the next one. For cyclists perhaps it’s ‘you really have just so many rides left in life.’ So make the most of each one as well.

This month’s Happy Hour in the East Bay visited Tropa in Lafayette. Tropa is a “modern” Filipino restaurant. I’m not sure exactly what that means because other than a stray lumpia or two I’m not familiar with Filipino cuisine. Fortunately we had Lamberto to help us decode the menu.

Of course before we ate we did a ride. It was the usual: up the Lamorinda trail and back. As in March we had a heat wave to literally warm things up for us. Much of the Lamorinda trail has tree cover and in the late afternoon heat it is marvelous: warmth with the sensation of cooling down to a pleasant medium. Strollers and doggers were out but for the most part the trail was deserted, allowing us to enjoy it without running afoul of other users. And when we did, we rang our bike bells to greet them.

The turnaround point is Moraga Common. This time of year folks are bringing the barbecue to the park for a little evening cookout and the smell of charring meat whetted our appetites.

Then the long, gentle descent back to Lafayette.

Tropa occupies the former location of The Hideout Kitchen that Roger and I used to take Social A riders to. Hideout got noticed and it became packed and had long waits. Then Hideout relocated to Fiesta Square in Lafayette where the Lafayette Public Garden and Tutu’s also sit. There it had a much bigger venue (and a much pricier menu). I’m not sure when Tropa appeared; Lamberto and Joe had mentioned dining at a pretty good Filipino restaurant in town. That piqued my interest because (a) I don’t know anything about Filipino food, and (b) it’s maybe a sign that insular Lafayette is becoming more cosmopolitan. That restaurant was Tropa.

Our table was waiting for us. Tropa has a pleasant outdoor patio under the trees. Main part of the restaurant as well as the outdoor venue are set off from the street, making for a surprising quiet and seclusion. Their menu isn’t long and Lamberto had to give us the executive summary of each main dish. My god, they had “double fried” petrale sole! It sounded delicious but perhaps a bit much, so I ordered another fish dish, Kilawin, that turned out unexpectedly to be like a poke. It was interesting, tasty, and uh large! The adobo fried rice was heavenly. The table next to us had the adobo sticky ribs—they smelled amazing. But again, maybe a bit much. Roger wanted the petrale sole but was thinking exactly as I was: delicious but too much food. So he ordered an eggplant dish. Chris got the grilled octopus and after his first bite declared it was perfect. He said it’s easy to overcook octopus and turn it into rubber; Tropa cooked them exactly right. I can’t recall what Joe and Lamberto ordered but they were huge.

I’d go back. But I’d get the double fried petrale sole or the adobo sticky ribs the next time and totally ‘pig’ out. Lamberto felt that Filipino food wasn’t generally the healthiest. Maybe he meant it was full of delicous fat. Sounds good to me! Pig certainly seems to be a mainstay. But it is also for Chinese (as least that’s what I grew up on) and no one complains about it being unhealthy.

Next month we’re checking out the Canyon Club Brewery in Moraga and our ride will be long—16 miles.

Can you sink any lower when your motivation to do a ride is just to get a great meal? Or, is it the other way around: an exquisite meal can elevate any ride? Such was the case with David’s joint desire to go to Treasure Island by bike and to get another meal at Jungdon Katsu in Emeryville. When David broached the idea of this ride with me, he admitted as much: the tonkatsu at Jungdon is ‘omigawd good and I wanna go there again’. Since David hadn’t ridden his bike to Treasure Island heretofore, that became the cover for our chow-down.

I had never heard of Jungdon Katsu but I’ve eaten my share of tonkatsu. Tonkatsu is everywhere in Japan although originally it was an importation from Europe. It’s an adaptation of a breaded veal cutlet or schnitzel given a Japanese twist and using pork instead. We don’t give a second thought about adopted foods because almost all American food dishes originate from somewhere else. But Japan has a long, autochthonous culinary history that has choosily but warmly accepted some imports from India, China, and now Europe and the Americas. Karē raisu (curry rice) is now a Japanese food even though it came from India; gyoza are nothing more than a Japanese version of potstickers; Japanese milk bread or pan is derived from Portuguese bread. What makes tonkatsu Japanese is the use of panko breading for an exquisitely crunchy crust.

Although you can get a few other dishes there, Jungdon specializes in tonkatsu. But it does have other kinds of katsu—chicken, fish, and some vegan and vegetarian kinds you’d never see in Japan, not even in shojin ryori (Buddhist cuisine).

I’ve driven through Emeryville hundreds of time and it was almost always to get someplace else such as the start of a bike ride. Roger and I have been to Emeryville a bunch of times in order to ride on the Alex Zuckerman path to Treasure Island or to lead a tour of the Port of Oakland. Emeryville is one of those Bay Area cities you drive through and have no reason to stop there; think: San Leandro or Colma. Well, there is a ‘there’ there. Back in the day Emeryville was one big, blue-collar warehouse district—similar to South of Market in the 1960s. When real estate in SF started to go astronomical in the early 1980s an artist friend took me over to Emeryville to look for an empty warehouse he could buy to use as his studio/residence. He eventually bought a place there. So for a short time Emeryville was the halfway house for artists priced out of SF. With the tech boom the warehouses are long gone and replaced by high density housing, tech offices, and a small retail sector to support those folks.

I know little of the history of Jungdon Katsu except that it originally was a restaurant in the town of Danville to which we ride often. But it burned down. The site of the current Jungdon Katsu seems to have been another Japanese restaurant and Jungdon took it over and converted it to katsu. Incidentally, in Japan it’s very common for eating establishments to specialize in just one type of food. A place might serve just ramen, another place just udon, or another place just sushi or just okonomiyaki. So Jungdon does just katsu and probably as a concession to American culture relents and offers a few other things.

David wanted to do this ride as a midweek ride because Jungdon has lines out the door on weekends. His plan was to get there at lunch time hopefully before a crowd developed.

Contrary to the weather forecast it was bright, sunny, and showing signs of being a comfortable day. I rode over the hill from Orinda for the 10:30 AM start because I knew I was going to pig out and burning more calories before the food carnage was my safety valve. Jungdon is a small, modest venue right in front of a bus stop for the “Emery-Go-Round” free bus. Soon everybody showed up. Peter again drove up all the way from San Jose, quite a feat. It turned out everybody else drove there too—Joe and Lamberto from Walnut Creek, David and Cathy from SF. We were all ignorant of the parking situation in Emeryville. Word to the wise: metered parking is not cheap. J&L discovered that the public lot down the block was, gasp, free! If you come to Jungdon, you are advised.

We took off and around the corner encountered the Longest Stop Light in the Known Universe. I am not exaggerating: we were there for well over five minutes. You have to cross the Amtrak tracks and naturally we got there when the crossing guards came down and a short Amtrak train came by. Then another Amtrak came by and then crossing guards went up. Minutes passed with a red light. Nothing happened. The pickup driver in front of us gave up and did a U-turn to escape waiting for Godot. Doesn’t he realize that the rail line goes north-south and he’ll just have to cross the rails somewhere else? A lesson in impatience. With both trains long gone the light was still red. We thought it was broken. Two cycles of lights for the other lanes came and went and ours was still red. Peter and David gave up and went through the light and crossed the tracks to the next intersection. The light finally changed and we began our crawl through E-town to the Bay Bridge bike path entrance.

Emeryville has a lively restaurant and shopping district close to 101. I was surprised that Emeryville has a protected lane on the main drag, Shellmound, and lots of lights for peds to get across and to slow down cars.

David had never ridden onto the bridge. The entrance is directly off southbound Shellmound just past the Ikea. If you don’t pay attention you’ll miss it since there are no large signs announcing its presence. Once on the Zuckerman path things calmed down immensely and we were able to double up and chat amiably. There were almost no other users on the trail. The brisk headwind had the benefit of clearing out the air and the sky was crystal blue. The deafening roar of the cars on the bridge was everpresent, the one buzzkill of riding on the bridge.

We stopped to use the portapotty on the Zuckerman path and some concluded it was, uh, challenging and demurred. There is a nicer restroom on Yerba Buena; it actually gets cleaned!

I hadn’t ridden to TI since the road down to the island had been reconfigured. Instead of Treasure Island Road, which was only moderately steep, we have an ‘improved’ path on Macalla. Now cyclists must drop under the new bridge and do a short grunt to get to the top of Macalla before taking a very steep descent. I was on the brakes all the way down. While we were descending it wasn’t lost on me that this was the way we would have to return. Long ago on a lark Roger and I went up Macalla and afterwards concluded that we’d never do it again since Treasure Island Road was so much better. More on that later.

On TI we actually didn’t do much ‘farting around’ as David had hoped. The views were of course spectacular on such a clear day. We did the selfie thing. Someone asked what else was on TI. The answer is, not much except housing. (Note: there are two decent places to grab a bit, Aracely and Mersea, but they don’t have katsu.) Somehow TI reminded me of Rikers Island. (You do the math.) Climate change is going to make TI a very interesting place to live in about fifty years. We’ll get a picture of that beforehand by observing what happens to New Orleans.

Before anyone could suggest another place to explore, I exclaimed, “I’m hungry!” and that was enough to trigger everyone to head back to Emeryville. But first we had to get up to the bridge.

I wonder whose bright idea it was to close Treasure Island Road and force cyclists to go up Macalla. As we rolled along the waterfront David craned his neck upward and asked, “Is that the road we came down??” “Yes,” I said, “and it’s the only way to get back.” If you didn’t know beforehand, you certainly know when you’re going up Macalla that its construction must have been an expediency because it’s a friggin’ solid and constant 17 percent grade. It’s certainly “above category”, more like “WTF” category. The one crumb thrown to cyclists is that at the bottom four switchbacks have been carved into the cliff to reduce the gradient. You have of course the option to continue on the road. But no sane person does. The switchbacks are rather nice because they’re well landscaped with coastal flora, colorful and redolent with coastal sage. There were gardeners working on it as we climbed.

All good things come to an end and unfortunately on Macalla you’re only about a sixth or seventh of the way up the crazy road when the switchbacks vanish. Why didn’t they continue? Maybe the developer ran out of money (because you know the City wouldn’t spend the money to do this.)

This is when experience is important. Not only did I know we were going to have to go up Macalla but I had to go up another 17% grade, Lomas Cantadas, from our house over the Berkeley hills to Jungdon. I had my road bike with a low gear of 30×34. It got me up Umunhum and it was going to get me through this ride. Whilst I solemnly glided up the hill, the carnage raged behind me. I saw Peter dismount and start walking. Lamberto unfortunately couldn’t get into his lowest gear but somehow grunted out the whole thing. Joe was gasping like an asthmatic when he arrived at the top. From there it was back to the Zuckerman path but not before you have to cross the exit ramp for traffic heading to TI. Another great place to get creamed by a car—be careful. Then it was all downhill back to Ikea, a really nice grade, and I coasted the entire way.

Jungdon was waiting for us and there was no crowd or line. We were able to take over a couple of its outdoor tables. Roger, who didn’t ride, was waiting for us. We had already looked at the menu online and knew what we wanted. I wanted the full Japanese treatment so I got a curry rice with a tonkatsu and miso soup; Roger got the dark meat tonkatsu as did David; Cathy had the chicken katsu; Lamberto and Joe both got the fish katsu (which I was very curious about). Peter being leery of gluten avoided the panko and got a Japanese potato salad and some fried vegetables. David had warned us that the portions were large and he was right. I don’t recall ever getting a tonkatsu meal with more than one cutlet; Jungdon gives you two and they aren’t small ones either. It was super crunchy!

We know we’ll be back and we’ll know where we can park for free next time. Maybe we’ll just go to the vista point on the Zuckerman path and skip Macalla.

I think everyone was glad they didn’t have to cycle after lunch. Like a snake digesting a large rat we were, uh, incapacitated temporarily. The owner came out and thanked us for dining at her establishment. We told her we had come over to ride to TI because we wanted to eat at her place. She smiled. Peter told her about gluten-free panko he gets at Whole Foods. If he brought some, would she consent to use it? “Sure!” she said. You know Peter is coming back for tonkatsu!

As Roger and I were leaving, a passerby said, “Hey, was that the Different Spokes ride at Jungdon?” It turns out a club member, Aaron, who lives across the street from Jungdon saw us clustered outside. I told him he should have played hooky and come along. “But isn’t the road to TI kinda steep?” he said. Oh, we’ll have to show him in person next time. But why would he go when he can always just walk across the street to get his tonkatsu fix?

After the summer-like weather in March, this month’s Happy Hour returned to normal spring temperatures much to Roger S’s disappointment. Hoping to escape another typical day in San Francisco, he scooted over to join our East Bay fun group for another short ride on the Lamorinda MUP with a concluding dinner at El Talpense in Lafayette. He wasn’t the only member from afar: Peter, who resides in San Jose, endured the commute traffic to join us! That’s the “problem” for the Happy Hour ride: unless you live in the East Bay, you are probably in for some hellish traffic to get to Lafayette and you will need that ride and the food coma afterwards to reset your mood and blood pressure.

Roger S dealt with the commuter crush by (a) coming over early, and (b) using BART. The latter is not Roger’s usual means of transport but on a weekday at commute time, the bridge is a hopeless mess. BART was the wiser choice. Plus, he was able to get in a longer ride and then met us at Moraga Common. So it was a win-win. This was also not Peter’s first rodeo. He knew the routine: head out way earlier than you think you’ll need to get somewhere at commute time. He got to Lafayette with time to spare and indulged his other interest by going into the flyfishing store next door to El Talpense to kill time.

My husband Roger was hoping to join us for the ride. But a trivial leg injury had turned into a medical emergency when it got infected and now he’s sporting a wound that will take months to fully heal. Although he got released to ride just the day before, he wisely decided to sit this one out and joined us just for the meal post-ride, which is really the point of this “ride” anyway.

We hadn’t seen Peter in well over a year. He was going to come to the Pool Party in 2025 but then got Covid and had to back out. (Thank you, Peter!) Since we’d seen him last he’s had a new job, a new bike, and a bunch of other life changes. It takes a lot of patience to be a South Bay member. Since the club (other than the ALC crowd) infrequently hosts a ride in the South Bay anymore, you all have to schlep north if you want to hang with the cool kids. When Sharon Lum, who also lives in SJ, was more active in the club, she did a lot of cheerleading for our South Bay contingent. David Gaus used to do a lot to hold the freak flag high for us as well. But since his job is like flesh-eating bacteria—all-consuming—he hasn’t been able to lead rides in the South Bay. For those of you who live south of Mountain View and are still members of the club, maybe lightning will strike some club member and they’ll get inspired to lead a ride in your neck of the woods. It’s probably been about five years since the one that David last led. I keep thinking I’m going to head south and do the Tierra Bella metric route or David’s old San Juan Bautista Grade-Castroville-Aromas loop. But it’s so far away…

It wasn’t chilly and it wasn’t hot—it was just right, about 70F. The ride was, as usual, very pleasant and the trail wasn’t crowded at all. Unlike previous iterations we whizzed up the trail. This was partly prompted by leaving late (hey, it’s a Different Spokes ride—would you expect otherwise??) and partly by Peter hitting the afterburners. Joe and Lamberto were no slouches either: they’ve been riding more and doing a lot of hiking and are even planning on running a half-marathon. In my case I was riding my road bike instead of my old beater bike so I was able to keep up. Peter showed off the digital “bell” in his cycling computer as we passed other trail users.

Roger S was waiting for us at Moraga Common. After a pit stop we headed back enjoying a nice coast downhill after St. Mary’s College. And because of the recent rain we even had water running down the ‘secret’ waterfall next to the trail!

At El Talpense, which is right on Lafayette’s main drag, Mt. Diablo Boulevard, Roger had arrived and gotten our outdoor table. Unlike in much of San Francisco, dining al fresco in Contra Costa does not require a down jacket. Lafeyette, whether by chance or efforts of the local Chamber of Commerce, is turning into a mini-gourmet ghetto. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But the number of eating establishments seems to have exploded along Mt. Diablo Boulevard giving us many options for Happy Hour. El Talpense is a sister restaurant to the first one in Berkeley. Years ago the Lafeyette site used to be an excellent California cuisine restaurant, whose name I no longer recall. But the landlord raised the rent, and the husband-and-wife team relocated. In the interim it’s been a Middle Eastern restaurant; it too vanished. Apparently El Talpense thought they’d try their chops in Conta Costa and opened this second branch.

Roger and I trialed this place about a month ago. To be honest, we thought it was only fair. This is an ongoing years-old problem with our area: really good Mexican and Central American food is rare. Maybe it’s the expensive real estate, maybe it’s the whiteness of the local population, maybe it’s something altogether different. (Although El Jarro directly across the street is a surprisingly good Oaxacan joint.) After living near the Mission and being able to get inexpensive and excellent Mexican food, the Orinda area is a let-down. But El Talpense has a very nice venue and the service is very good. Plus, for the area and with food prices heading skyward the menu prices are reasonable.

Despite the brevity of our ride, there sure was a lot of food being consumed. Joe, so to speak, ‘took the cake’ by ordering a three-item plate that looked like it was a serving platter. Let’s just say the portions were generous all around. Roger’s plate of carnitas was also, uh, generous. This time I ordered fish tacos and they were excellent and tasty. Previously I had had a burrito and it was just okay. That said it’s hard to make a burrito really stand out other than by making it massive. But I’ll come back for the fish tacos!

Of course over dinner (and the ride) there was a lot of catching up to do. On the pet front everybody’s favorite small honorary humans were still alive and kicking despite their ailments. Lamberto has a new sled, a Specialized Roubaix that he got on sale. Coincidentally Peter has the same bike but the previous year’s version, which looked identical. Ah, spring means new bikes. Roger S had new cycling kicks. He ditched his old Sidis, which never were very comfortable for him, for some non-brand name shoes he got on the Internet. They have a much wider and taller toebox that don’t scrunch his toes. He said they’re even comfortable to walk in. We caught up on each other’s various ailments. (What else do old farts do when they get together??) Joe and Lamberto have been volunteering to do some trash clean up and Joe had a nasty run-in with poison oak necessitating a trip to the doctor. Peter it turns out is apparently still suffering some after-effects of his Covid bout last summer though you wouldn’t know it by how fast he was going.

We practically closed up El Talpense. It was getting dark and the owners rolled down the windows between the indoors and outdoor patio. One small group arrived to sit on the patio just as we left but otherwise business looked done for the day. That’s life in the suburbs: everybody is pretty much done doing stuff by 8 PM and the sidewalks roll up. We bid our farewells. Next month we’re going to the Filipino restaurant down the street, Tropa. Oh right, and we’ll ride beforehand!

The return of the East Bay Happy Hour could not have happened at a better time. Coinciding with an incredible winter heat wave—a jaw-dropping mid-eighties in March—this month’s confab/ride/feast had the luxurious feel of a fabulous Southern California evening by the beach. Except minus the beach. There we were post-ride on the outdoor patio at the former Lafayette Chow (now named Tutu’s) in t-shirts and shorts basking in the late afternoon sun surrounded by fellow diners in flipflops, shorts, and tanktops. Wait, where am I??

But I’m jumping ahead…

After a doleful winter recovering from surgery, I decided it was time to get the band back together and hit the road. The last Happy Hour was in October and we put it on hiatus with the demise of Daylight Savings Time. At the time I was thinking we’d restart in April. But the dismal state of the club ride calendar had me thinking, “WTF?! What have these queens been doing besides their makeup? It’s time to HTFU and start using those rubbers on your bike!” Plus, a ten-mile, flat ride was just the thing to ease back into riding again. A quick email to the usual suspects resulted in hearty “Yeah!”. We are on a mission from God…

The Happy Hour so far has been the usual five-mile jaunt up the Lafayette-Moraga Regional Trail to Moraga Common and then back. It takes about an hour depending on how much gabbing goes on. Joe and Lamberto, Roger S, and me and the hubby were there. Chris had to cancel for some reason. His excuse? “I ran out of gas. I had a flat tire. I didn’t have enough money for cab fare. My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts. It wasn’t my fault. I swear to god!” It’s alright, Chris, next month.

Roger came all the way from SF, a bit of a surprise given how troublesome it is to cross the Bay at the commute hour. But ever resourceful he left SF at two in the afternoon and did some shopping in the East Bay to kill time before the ride, so no joy-killing stop-and-go for him. And we do love our shopping! Joe and Lamberto were recently back from an extended stay in Panama. We were eager to hear all about ex-pat life in the soon-to-be…let’s see: Greenland, Venezuela, Canada, Iran…55th state!

When we departed it felt like a pleasant summer roll: about 85F with the sun low in the sky. You could feel the heat winding down to a comfortable level. The near-dusk light put everyone in a quiet and relaxing mood. As we rode, Lamberto and Joe made me so envious recounting how they ended up hanging out with Greg Louganis while in Panama. I need to hit them up to get his autograph next year. Maybe he’ll come to the Pool Party if we invite him! A quick pitstop at Moraga Common and it was a fast roll back to town. With the heat there was a spate of young, shirtless Adonises from St. Mary’s College training on the trail. Such lovely scenery…

Our table outside was waiting at Tutu’s. Lamberto and Joe filled us in on life in Boquete, Panama. Boquete, being in the highlands and away from the coast, does not suffer from the equatorial heat, making for ‘just right’ weather. Boquete also hosts the Baru volcano, which tops out over 11,000 feet. Their hiking group, which meets three times a week, tramps all the way to the summit! Besides hiking with the other ex-pats, they indulge in dominos and other tile games with the retirees. Life in Panama for pensioners is pretty sweet; everything is a lot cheaper: food, dining out, housecleaning. Unfortunately Boquete has now been discovered and is fast turning into the place for ex-pats who want to maintain their lifestyle. Next stop: higher costs, more construction! The other topic of conversation was pet insurance (again) and the dirty little secret that when your BFF gets seriously ill, the costs are going to be very similar to when you get sick. Except you have health insurance and there ain’t no Obamacare for pets (yet). Oliver, their dog, has cancer and Roger’s cat has kidney failure; our cats both died after thousands of dollars of care that were only ameliorated by, thank god, pet insurance. It turns out Roger S’s presence wasn’t due to our sparkling personalities, joie de vivre, or even the food at Tutu’s. The mundane reason is that Roger loves hot weather, something that San Francisco rarely has. We’ll see if he comes over when it’s more like 100F this summer!

Little has changed since Chow became Tutu’s. The other Chows were shuttered but the Lafayette branch was bought by its employees. In effect it’s a workers’ cooperative not unlike the Cheese Board, Other Avenues, or Rainbow Grocery. The menu has largely remained intact, which is a good thing because it covers all the bases—omnivore, carnivore, vegetarian, vegan. It’s also organic. This time Joe and Lamberto exercised restraint—only Joe had an adult beverage, a just reward for a bike ride, but he balanced that with ordering the veggie platter. Roger S indulged in a pot roast—by the way, what is a pot roast?—and Roger and Lamberto both got pizzas, prosciutto and chorizo respectively. Tutu’s had petrale sole so without hesitation it was my choice. And *gasp* no one wanted dessert.

The sun disappeared and there we were in the evening dining outside in summer wear deep in conversation. Sated we said our farewells and headed home. Although Tutu’s is always a good choice, next month we will likely wander further afield, maybe Tropa for Filipino food. Stay tuned!