Oakland Hills Mission #1:  Ionic Spawn
Monday, 8 May, 2000 1 p.m.

My head is thick with wine from the night’s partial-written-paper celebration
and my lids seal my eyes like the corks of my nemesis.  I am a neophyte
alcoholic and a veteran of hangovers.  A sip of sake would make me crave salt
the next morning.  I decided I had to go on a bike ride.  The route was
mapped out in my head:  High to MacArthur to Lincoln to San Joaquim to some
trail somewhere.  I have never mountain biked in Oakland.  Until recently, I
believed my options were limited to lengthy treks into Marin County.  A
friendly neighbor told me differently.  “Here, take this.”  A trail map of
the East Bay.  Victory.  Today would be my first exploration.  And not only
my first day in the Oakland Hills, but my new bike’s first day...EVER.  I was
amped.  His mango incandescence has woken me up every morning since
Wednesday.  Without exaggerated personification, to explain him is to explain
a dream boy (girls, concur).  He is well-sculpted and well-built, agile,
sleek, harbors unparalleled style and if you can believe it, whispers to me
all night long.  And I thought it was a joke when TK said it.  It’s true.
There is magnetism like no other.  And yes, IT is a BOY, I’ve decided.  He’s
got a good head(set) and handles my body well.

So, I commenced the climb from High Street to MacArthur Avenue.  I realized
early on how silly I felt in the Barrio, sporting Swobo and a camelback,
yellow lenses and black biker gloves.  Some of the looks I received should be
photo documented, which righteously made me a bit self-conscious.  For those
of you who don’t know, I live in a neighborhood where this bike would be five
months rent in some government subsidies and at least 4 thousand buckets of
Popeye’s Chicken.  No joke.  Not to mention the camelback curiosity.  If I
had never seen one, I’d think the person sporting it was a wack.  Well, the
story goes.  This area is rough.  The ice cream truck blares gender-hate rap.
 Churches have iron gates over their doors.  Crooked cops live on every
corner.  White girls on nice bikes don’t race alongside lowered Impalas.  It
just shouldn’t be.  But today, I bent the rules and as a result, spent the
better half of the first climb up Lincoln (4X Paseo Way) plotting how I would
maneuver back home without anyone seeing me.  I later find out from my
neighbor that there is no way to avoid it -- just ride fast.  Besides, 2
miles up Lincoln (did I say 4X Paseo already?), I enter the Oakland Hills.
Out of the valley.  People stop looking.  I stop caring.  And I’m sweating
like a big guy in a sauna.

It is a muggy day.  The rain has stopped after two days, but the sky is still
white with clouds and the air, thick with moisture.  Fate could tempt storms
at any moment.  I shed some layers and scope my surroundings before I drop
into the trail.  There are Redwoods everywhere.  I roll over protruding
metamorphic rocks and through green muds.  Waxy, lime-green leaves burgeon
from every clump of black soil they can.  The colors show a spectrum of
autumn in the same way autumn can show the bright and brilliant spectrum of
spring: The season is undeniable, yet your eyes are privy to an extrinsic
assortment of hues.  My arms are painted wet by bowing branches, heavy with
dew, and my legs already display Jackson Pollack-like designs of sandy mud
and muddy sand.  The trail is rough to start.  I’m sure you all know how
tilted beds of sandstone erode in wet climates:  like corn rows of girthy
thighs.  I stay to the high left, avoiding slippage and rutting out in the
crevices between “thighs.”  Up and around the steep corner to the left, I
enter Ewok Land.  This is what we will call the G-trail.  Like no other Ewok
Land I have seen -- it is Muir’s wettest of dreams.  Ferns live in the roots
of Redwoods.  There are enclaves of forest floor lilies.  Like the low arms
of Hemlocks, trees reach out over the trail to create a canopy choreographed
like a trellis.  My nose fills with Eucalyptus and dirt.  The bike is a
dream.  I’m in rhapsody.

Not long after, I reach a clearing.  A circle of Redwoods and Eucalypti, a
grassy meadow, low profile picnic spot.  There is even room for frisbee.
This is called (yup, back-parking lot Larkspur high school graduates, you got
it): Redwood Bowl.  The sun is starting to shine.  There are four directions
I can go at this point.  I take a trail to the right with the same name as a
peak on Mt. Tam.  This place is home, I swear.  Unfortunately, I’m punished
by wet sand.  I begin to notice that I share this trail with horses.
Ungulate prints sink deep into the punished ground and I’m given a preview to
my clipless pedal demise.  Forced to jump off my bike or fall over, I walk a
short distance.  It’s quick sand.  Quick muddy sand.  Sticky.  Bad for the
pedals.  I cuss, find a patch of grass and oak leaves and, using a stick,
clean out my cleats.  Back in the saddle, I get sand blasted by what's on my
tires.  All smiles, I'm thinking, the faster I go, the cleaner they’ll get.
I was right.  I end up in the backyard of a horse ranch looking like a mud
creature.  It would be hard to convince anyone that I didn’t just crawl out
of the side of the mountain.  However, I discover later that it is even
harder to convince a gas station attendant that I NEED the water hose to
rinse off my bike.  I ended up winning him over (and 30 gallons of his water)
by pointing at the clumps of mud my new rear derailer and saying “how would
you like THAT in YOUR engine?!?”

I must have hit 50 MPH on Redwood Avenue.  This road is half the length of
Lincoln, but connects the same streets.  (You do the vert math).  My friend
Adam takes this road UP on his road bike.  I’d consider it on a Vespa.  I’m
home in 10 minutes.  I passed the pissed off Ice Cream Man (“Bitches ain’t
shit but ho’s and tricks”), the bad looks, the East Oakland faith community
after Monday Mass, the huge warehouses and small houses, the Latino clothing
stores, and the Thai lunch spots.  I am home.  Despite the severeness of my
neighborhood, it is comfortable.  I hear trains at night.  I eat really good,
authentic food.  I can hear gospel sometimes.  My rent is cheap and my place
is huge.  I have roof access and potential for indoor rope swings.  It gets
better when I watch a lavender sky turn to dark and not have to worry about
door to door salesmen or canvassers, nor worry about gunshots or thieves.  It
is the perfect middle ground.  I look down at my clean bike and my dirty skin
and laugh when I see the day's final bad look coming from my neighbor’s
freaky cat, Grady.  He has recently discovered he can’t lick the lotion off
of my legs.  I enter a hot shower and stay for 20 minutes.

The Oakland Hills will be renamed in my brain for epic biking.  I’m hungry,
and happier than I’ve been since yesterday.
 
 

Disclaimer to near-future writing:  [Almost] full-time work and [definitely]
full-time graduate school may keep Svea from leisure-writing such as this.
Although she vows to get her ass out on her bike more, she may not always
have the time to write about it.