Lots of women out biking today. Around 3 pm I headed out, after going up on the roof to see who was stomping around over my head and what they were doing. It was Greg and a helper, replacing the rotten wood around the eaves. We said hello, goodbye, have a good afternoon, and I betook myself to the garage, my bike, my helmet, my lights—now you look like an ambulance, said my husband, adding yet another flashing red light to the back of the bike seat. So be it. 45 minutes, steadily uphill to where Alpine crosses Portola Valley Road. Stop to catch my breath, let my heart rate calm down, drink. On up to the top of Alpine, another slow half hour on a winding uphill road, narrow, little traffic, more bikes than cars, and once there are no more houses, at least visible, a gorge with a stream chuckling along over and around large, smooth stones, woods, sunlight through leaves. I stopped at the wood fence, I stopped again just before the intersection with another, steeper road, then I got to the top. Oof! A young woman came along, we chatted, she was wearing a Mont Ventoux shirt, had been up ‘the easy side.’ She sped off. I waited a minute or two, and then sped after her. Was home around six. Read Milosz, Dominique Rolin, downloaded the Woodward book. Should keep it for the airplane but can’t wait.
I’ve started. It’s true, he’s a very dull writer.