2/15/2026

Hi Neighbors,

I’m experiencing, what you could call, a writer's block. Maybe it’s because my chronic illness is flaring worse than it has been since I was diagnosed, or maybe it’s because the world is falling apart and I feel selfish adding to the noise, or maybe it’s because I’m obsessively thinking about my dog’s behavior and how to make her happy. Whatever it is, the words are not flowing.

I keep trying to come up with witty, funny things to say that are full of hope and intrigue, laced with some kind of lesson, but I can’t. All I can think about is that I wish I was riding my bike more, and had more bike stories to share, but I don’t really want to ride my bike because my body hurts and I want to go for a walk with Bennie more than I want to ride my bike. It’s almost impossible to remember the kind of athlete I used to be when, these days, my commute to work takes my breath away and makes my legs shake. 

When I was still fairly new to being a cyclist, I took myself on a 50-something mile ride called ‘The Seven Sisters’ (due to its seven climbs). It was 75 degrees in the city, but by the time I was in Fairfax, it was 90 degrees and absolutely sweltering, and in retrospect, I was deeply unprepared. What I had, though, was the confidence of naïvety. I was so freaking stoked to just be riding my beautiful new bike - my Crust Lightning Bolt, built to be my dream bike - that I didn’t even stop to consider my own capabilities. The first climb was great. I was sweaty and breathing hard, but feeling strong and powerful. When I dropped down towards Alpine Dam and saw the glistening water, I felt like something had awoken inside of me. This is what I was put on earth to do. Move my legs, see the world, and think deeply while doing it. 

The climbing began again. One water bottle - gone. My long black leggings were starting to feel like a bad choice for the weather. But the hard part is over! Right? Wrong, so wrong. As the grade increased, my legs started to quiver, and every time I checked my GPS, the joy of the ride was a little harder to find. What the hell was I thinking? But there was no turning back. There was only pain, sweat, and half a water bottle left. I was trying to eat the melted peanut butter cups in my stem caddy but the chocolate stuck to the foil and they tasted like the bile rising in my throat. What the hell was I thinking? 

It had been an hour and a half since I’d seen another cyclist. I felt like I was on a deserted island, and, even now, I can’t believe how slow I was moving. I thought about ripping my pants into shorts, but the lululemon price tag was somehow more powerful than the risk of heatstroke, so I settled for rolling them up to my mid calf, desperate for a little breeze on my bare skin. I felt like a fool, and it was getting hotter by the minute. The shade had completely disappeared, and as the seconds went by, I could feel the sunburn on my back developing. Salt crystalized on my skin and my glasses kept slipping down my nose covered in beads of perspiration. Every time I took a sip of water, I had to stop myself from being greedy. The sweet, cool breeze blowing off Alpine Dam haunted me as I continued moving upwards on the shoulder of the unforgiving cement road.

I had two tablespoons of water left and at that point, the increase in heart rate was more from anxiety than exertion. I was 10 miles from the Mount Tam ranger station. 10 impossible miles. There wasn’t an inch of shade to collect my thoughts under. I was panicking. What compelled me to ride further than I had ever ridden on a day hotter than 99% of Bay Area days in black pants? I didn't know how to conserve less than an ounce of water over 10 miles, I didn’t know how to breathe, and I didn’t know what to do.

I called my brother. Which, let me just tell you, was a slightly strange choice, but something compelled me to pick up my phone (which was down to 17% battery) and call him. “I’m on my bike and I’m freaking out.” He laughed at me a little bit, which, oddly, helped. He asked me about my location, what I had eaten, what I had left to eat, and if I could keep riding. 

“Yes, I can keep riding.” 

“Okay. Just put one pedal down and then the next, and keep riding. All you can do is keep pedaling.” 

In the moment, it felt revolutionary. He hung up, and I just kept pedaling. 10 miles became 9, and then 7, and after what felt like an eternity, I was rolling up to the glistening, sparkling, awe-inspiring water fountain at the ranger station. The parking lot was packed, and I felt like a wild animal on display as I stood in front of the fountain and guzzled down enough water to give myself a stomach ache. My hair was cemented onto my forehead with sweat, my back radiated heat from spending too long under the sun, and my mind was absolutely blank with exhaustion. 

My water bottles were filled and emptied and then filled again, and even though all I wanted to do was sit on the bench in that parking lot, I started pedaling again. The descent was glorious! For about 25 seconds, and then my sweat-soaked body was cold, overwhelming cold. It felt like a cruel joke, but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t even care. All I could do was get through it. I made it into Sausalito and began the ascent towards the bridge with a renewed sense of confidence and capability. The temperature dropping five degrees every two miles definitely didn’t hurt, and for the first time, the wind blowing across the West side of the bridge didn’t bother me. 

When I got back to the city, going home felt like an anti-climactic conclusion for my near death experience of a ride. The only place I could even consider showing my dirty, disheveled self was Scenic Routes, so I pedaled down Lake Street, turned right on 8th, and wiggled my way to the shop. I burst through the double doors like I was crossing the finish line of the Tour de France, and was greeted with so much excitement. I told my story of woe, of panic, and of triumph, and when I showed Jay the map of my ride, he informed me that I had gone the wrong way around, and if I’d taken the route in reverse, it would’ve been half as hard. Wow. 

I texted my brother, who was relieved to hear I hadn't collapsed on the side of the road, got myself Thai food and a pint of ice cream, and hobbled home to take a shower and sleep for 16 hours. 

This story doesn’t really have a point, except to tell you that we can do hard things. A year after that long, hot day, Jay and I rode the Seven Sisters ‘the right way,’ and it wasn’t even that hard. It was fun and challenging and so beautiful. It’s nice to think about being a person who rides 53 miles just because I want to, because I can. It’s nice to think that I will be that person again some day. For now, I’ll ride to work, and to the park, and walk my dog, and keep writing stories even though the words don’t want to flow. And when I need to, I’ll ask for help. Even when the advice is as obvious as “just keep pedaling,” sometimes what is profound is the support of another person, cheering you on as you do hard things.

- Ayla

If you want to take yourself on an adventure, swing by the shop and we can help you plan your route, and we promise to send you the right way. On the shop’s calendar coming up, we have: 

BAR WRAP CLASS!

Thursday, February 19th 

Bring your drop bar bike, pick out a bar tape, and learn all the tricks of a neat and tidy bar wrap. 

Class Sign Up!

DAY GROOVES COMMUNITY BIKE RIDE!

Sunday, February 22nd

Meet @ 10:45, Roll @ 11:00

521 Balboa Street

A Galentine’s Edition of our girls and gays ride. I’ll bring the treats, Jerry will bring the tunes, and you bring the gossip. We’ll bop our way through the park and keep the pace conversational. See you there! 

COMMUNITY NIGHT!

Thursday, February 26th

Come by at 7:00

Fill the shop with joy, laughter, and community during our monthly invitation to join us for a drink, or a snack, or some giggles. 

QUERCUS FAMILY BIKE RIDE! 

Sunday, March 1st

Meet @ 9:00am

Roll @ 9:15

“LOVE” Blocks in front of the Conservatory of Flowers

A ride for every member of the family! Those on pedal bikes, strider bikes, and cargo bikes are welcome! We’ll match the pace of our slowest rider, blow some bubbles, and end with a story time at Metson Lake. See you there! 

The shop is open noon to seven, Tuesday through Sunday. Bring your bikes in for repair, or stop by just to say hi. We’ll see you soon, neighbors.