Worn Treads

Every city has “their ride”; Buffalo, WY had the Big Horns, Jackson has the Teton Pass, and Oakland has Mt. Diablo. These rides are rights of passage for road riders. That being said, since moving here it has been a ride I’ve been looking at and looking at. A ride I have been all too compelled to ride. Having a day off and stressing a little over life I did what any good cyclist does on a day off from work, I rode.

Mt Diablo, from Wikipedia, I failed to take a good full picture of the Mountain.

I opted to ride to Diablo instead of taking BART to Walnut Creek as many riders choose to do, which also meant it was my first time riding East over the Berkeley/Oakland Hills; that was no picnic either. I went up Broadway Terrace towards the Sibley Volcanic Monument, a grueling ride through a ritzy upper class neighborhood (yes, Oakland has money and they hide it in the hills). I worked up in the warm fog that had my pores oozing sweat, doing no good in the humidity. Getting about ¾ up I had to take a breath.

I pulled off and leaned up against a barrier to catch my breath and my bearings, but something wasn’t right. My stomach was not in the best mood and my head hurt a little. The descent would be easy and I’d be home to sit and swill in my thoughts. I’ve been here before. Been here a bunch of times actually, that moment when you first get out and test the waters and realize your body may not be ready for this ride (going up before the warm up doesn’t help). I pointed my tire downhill, got on the bike, held it for a second, then got back off turned the bike around and went back up. Not getting off that easy today.

It wasn’t much longer before I crested and it felt good The descent was a dreamy blur; Redwood, Oaks, and Eucalyptus whizzed by in a beatific haze. Roadies went by going up as I began to go down. My legs were starting to get under me and my body was starting to agree. I dropped down through the strange blip of Canyon, CA, someplace I’d expect to see in Northern California on some back highway. A Post Office with gruff men standing outside smoking cigarettes looking off at the woods, like looking at something I’d never understand. Past the post office was a log cabin school that seemed out of place in this highly urbanized region.

Foggy Descents

Canyon, CA School

Continuing the Western theme, I nabbed some rails to trails. My original plan was supposed to be quite a few of these, but getting a tad turned around meant I was only on the Lafayette Moraga Trail, a typical Rail to Trail, which being Sunday eventually became too trafficked for my speeds and I bailed on it, luckily the Erie Canal Trail in December shouldn't have this problem!

Lafayette Moraga Trail, the rare quiet section on Sunday

From Canyon I dropped further into Moraga. I was now in the sunny valley riding through the streets of commuter towns that also felt worlds apart from the Bay’s waters. It felt like a dry Western, this little town seemed to hang on to some ambitions of those desert towns further East. It’s a hard thing to describe, but if you ever pass through one of these towns, you know what it’s like. Although importing Bay money it was a little more of a built up Western township, with Chipotles and Starbucks, similar to Jackson or what I’d imagine parts of Aspen look like. The population also gave it a less transient feel.

Roads, where we're going we do need roads! Briones-Diablo Trail.

Somehow in Moraga I got turned around. I trusted my GPS with new Open Street Maps, which was a bad idea. It ended up putting me out on the Briones Mt Diablo Trail, which was unpaved. I tested the waters on my 28 mm slicks, but it was daunting and I had to turn back. This was another crossroad; to quit or press on. I was about 30 miles in and still had at least 16 to get to the summit. It wasn’t a bad ride to that point, and the ride back would make for a decent day ride. But no. I came out to beat this thing and I will.


I reapplied the GPS and got back on track and finally found the park (you’d think that a mountain would be easy to find). I crossed into the park and immediately got passed by a roadie, one of the many many many cyclists punishing their legs for the view and the self satisfaction of pulling your body weight up that mountain. Then I too began the climb.

Elevation profile from Mapmyride.com

Up it went, and up was the only direction it went. I was talking with Scott the other day about climbing and how I prefer climbs that don’t let up, well here it was. No drop downs, your breaks are smaller grades, when the road isn’t vamping up around corners. I found my cadence and pressed on. On this side of the valley the sun beat down and I was pouring sweat tasting the salt on my lips, all I could think of was the descent, especially as I watched other cyclists whizz by on the descent, some of them with big fat huge smiles on their face, soon enough I’d get it.


I reached the Junction Ranger station, but I wanted an uninterrupted climb, so on I rode. Pushing and pushing and pushing. I watched as cars spinned around the mountain towards the summit where I’d eventually be riding. I had to reach it. I grinded out the climb and gruelled onward, the gear got heavier and heavier. Standing out of the saddle only brought more dismay, how much longer could I push?

Cars circle their way up the climb.

Not much further apparently, my body began to go again. My chest felt like it was shrinking and couldn’t take the air I was reaching for, this brought my stomach and head into a fray. I couldn’t imagine the summit to be much further up, my odometer read 45 miles, I had calculated it to be at the 47.5 mile that I’d summit. No giving up that close. I drank some water and again for the last time tried the summit.

This was the point that was real tough, knowing I was so close, watching the visitor center grow to human size meant I was nearly there, but my legs still thought it was centuries away. I grunted through the pain, kept my head, turned the corner and finally, after 10 miles of up the visitor center parking lot appeared. It was there. The last section from the lower lot to the visitor center is a super steep one. I cheated and hit my granny gear (which tossed my chain for some reason, and almost threw out my back). But there I was. I had made it. It was a great accomplishment, while at the summit I had seen a handful of other cyclists, but not like that takes away from what I did and that’s what I love most about cycling, it’s never about beating the guy next to you (for the most part), but beating your own times and breaking your own limits, defeating the rides you want to defeat. I had made it.

You can see forever from here.

The views were stunning (apparently from Diablo you can see the most geographical territory than from any other US peak), to the East was the Sierras sitting beyond the valley towns (apparently on a clear day you can see Lassen). Off to the West, where I started were the hills, which literally were hills looking down on them from this height. After a Coke and a Snickers bar I geared up for the long (really actually long) ride down.


The descent was as fun as those big grins had hinted towards. The bends were wide and long and the road was steep, cars veered out of the way as I could take the road much better than they could. It wasn’t like most descents that just seem to happen then be done, going over 3,000 ft down meant I could just coast through and enjoy the swerves and bends and sun on my face. With the wind through my hair after an accomplished climb, it felt great, and with it all my stresses were left there at the summit and I’m still riding that high that comes from an unbelievable ride.

At the end of the day I did probably over 5,000 ft of elevation gain (I skipped going back over the hills and took BART from Walnut Creek, which is further than I thought I was) and 65 miles. It was the first big ride I had done in a while and it felt good that it was a killer climb. Now I just need to get Mt. Tam under my belt.

Summits!