Ten more meditaions:





Five miles up the canyon, its walls layered on each side by ancient lava flows, we reached the Honey Run Road Covered Bridge. A few times long ago - not quite as long as those lava flows – on quiet evenings when the only sound was the water running in Butte Creek, I kissed a few young women underneath the rafters of that bridge.





Beyond the bridge, the road sign seemed so apropos: Paradise above, with a more centered existence for those below. We chose Paradise, the little town hidden in the pines, five miles away and a thousand+ feet above us.





The road was twisting, narrow and in places steep. Since the road was almost all in the shade, the climb was cool. Here, though, we saw cyclists resting on the side of the road, or walking their bikes. Last year, six weeks out from my heart attack, I suffered some on the climb to Paradise. Should gaining the heavens be any other way? This year, with many more miles under my wheels, I wouldn't say the climb was a breeze; it was, though, far easier, and we found ourselves mostly passing other riders as we pedaled steadily to the top of the volcanic ridge.





Near the top of the climb, I had to stop to make a few photographs of an old mountain man who played, he told us, an Appalachian dulcimer. He made beautiful music as we reached Paradise. Last year, after reaching the first rest stop, I'd essentially collapsed after my hard ride, only 25 miles into the century; it took me a good 20 minutes to recover. This year, I didn't need any recovery time.





A series of screaming, 40+ mph descents and another 25 miles brought us to the outskirts of the old Gold Rush town, Oroville, and another rest stop, where I made a self-portrait in Richard's sunglasses.





We passed some riders and an arm of the mighty Oroville Lake, part of the complex series of dams and canals that both stop flooding and bring water from the usually wet north to the nominally parched southern half of the state.





The route now turned seriously steep, taking us up to the top of a vast plateau, Table Mountain. The sun cooked the south-facing road and cyclists alike. My brother had pedaled on ahead of Richard and me. When I chased him down, I found he'd made some new friends, three women from the Bodealicious Babes bike club. What were they doing talking to that old guy?





This was the crux of the entire ride. Surmount Table Mountain and finishing the rest of the ride, while not exactly a piece of cake, was a lock.





Last year - and all the previous eight times I'd made the climb up Table Mountain – had been a struggle, a hard effort to keep some tempo going. This year, nearing 60 miles into the ride, it was as if I was riding a few miles north of my home in the Santa Monica Mountains. All those extra miles of preparation this year were paying off.





I wasn't the only one to feel the relief at gaining the heights.


While this would be a good place to stop, I'll add some photos to finish - thanks for riding this far with me.