I touched my watch face, starting my Strava workout, threw my leg over the saddle, and started spinning my bike pedals in what is normally an hour-long grind to the top of Mount Tamalpais—the birthplace of mountain biking and home to unrivaled views of the San Francisco Bay, Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and, of course, the beautiful city stretched out behind it all.
The ride had become a Thanksgiving tradition—an opportunity to squeeze in a couple of final rides before trading out the bike for skis and skins and winter fun. John, our fearless leader (and my brother-in-law, who was hosting us for the week), led the way, chatting about this and that.
To my right was my oldest daughter, Marin, also tracking her ride on Strava. To my left was my youngest daughter, Isabel, who had been talked into joining us for a relatively easy ride—a bit of climbing and then a long, fun downhill back to the car and a lunch of her choice.
The climb started immediately, as in one foot from the bumper of the car, and ground up an old railroad bed. The surface was generally decent, with spots of erosion that left lumps and bumps that made the constant uphill a bit more work.
Every now and then, we’d stop to take in the view. Inevitably, Isabel asked, “How much farther to the top?”
“I think we’re halfway there,” I said.
John laughed. “Uh, we’re maybe a quarter of the way there.”
Isabel gave me a look that said, “I’m not having a blast.”
I encouraged her and made a point to ride next to her, chitchatting as we slowly worked our way ever upward.
At the true halfway point, we stopped to eat a Clif Bar, have some water, and sit at the picnic table, enjoying the view. This stopping point was at an old inn, full of people engaging in the same Thanksgiving Day activity and enjoying the sunshine and camaraderie.
The vibe was cool and everyone in our party—both daughters and John—smiled and laughed.
“Should we finish up?” asked John.
“Yep,” said Isabel.
So, off we went, the gravel turning to asphalt and the pitch increasing. Our huffing and puffing increased, but our spirits were buoyed by the fact that we were almost to the top.
Eventually, we pedaled through the top gate, across the top parking lot to the observation deck at the top of the mountain. The views were awesome, the company even better.
“Isabel. You crushed that,” said Marin. “Don’t you feel awesome to be up here?”
“Uh, not really,” said Isabel, smiling, “but I’m glad I did it. I’m also glad it’s all downhill from here.”
I looked at my watch. “Well, it took us an hour and a half to get up here,” I said. “I bet it only takes us thirty minutes at most to get back down.”
John agreed.
We refueled, then mounted up and headed downhill at Mach 3, rocks flying off our tires, dirt in the gravel corners kicking up dust. We flew along, not paying much attention to our direction, heading ever downward.
After about fifteen minutes, John skidded to a stop.
“This doesn’t look right,” he said. “We should have hit the second asphalt section by now.”
I looked around and agreed. “Did we take a wrong turn somewhere?”
“I think we did,” said John.
So, we turned around, looking up the big hill we had just hustled down, and felt instant regret.
“Do we really have to climb back up?” asked Isabel.
“Only if we want to get home,” I said smiling. She wasn’t amused. And truth be told, neither was I.
We cranked up the hill for 10 minutes, finding the turn we missed, and started downhill once again.
“Well, that wasn’t awful,” I said to Isabel.
“It hurt me,” she said. “The only thing that kept me going was the thought of a cheeseburger at the end of the ride.”
“Well, you earned that,” I said.
We rode downhill, resting our legs and enjoying the ride—until John stopped again.
“I don’t remember this gate,” he said. “I think we missed another turn.”
After much discussion and with the help of other riders, we realized we had done it again—worse this time.
I looked at Isabel. She was disgusted with us but resigned to the task. Together, we climbed back in the saddle and worked our way uphill to the turn we missed.
We started downhill again, not convinced we knew where we were but comforted by seeing things we thought we’d seen on the way up.
This time, we were right. We rolled into the parking lot and tiredly loaded our bikes onto the truck.
I clicked off my watch. We had ridden nearly 3,000 vertical feet, over 22 miles, in about four hours. A far cry from the hour ride I had promised my kids. Ouch.
Marin clicked her watch off. According to her Strava, she had only ridden 2,500 vertical feet in 20 miles.
“What the heck,” she said. “How could you have ridden longer and harder than me?”
I smiled.
“Well, apart from the fact that I’m a beast and you’re not, my watch also has a dad mode. It ensures my stats are always better than yours.”
“Ha,” she said. “That’s the only way you’d ever beat me.”
Probably true. OK, not probably, but gratifying nonetheless.
We loaded up and headed into town to get Isabel her cheeseburger.
In the end, fun was had, but it was Type 2 fun—the kind that’s only fun after it’s over and you can brag about it in the bar.
