Raven's Roads
Living an interesting life: the travels and musings
of motorcycling author Linda R. Moore

Feb 12, 2006

Hicks Road

Filed in Days Out

12 February 2006

Originally published in “Wind Chimes”

There are many ways that one can describe a road such as Hicks, lurking in the Almaden Quicksilver Mine area.

Pretty.
Intense.
Wiggledy.
Gleep.

Sometimes it’s better not to look at the map beforehand. I’ve often done a loop known as “Shannon and Hicks”; it’s a lovely swoop of a road with a single gentle switchback, challenging for a beginner and fun for someone who’s less of one. I’ve also done much more wiggledy roads, such as highway 242 in Oregon. The difference is that with highway 242, I had no idea what was in store, whereas for this ride, I had a fairly good idea. It really does change your perception of a ride.

In the simple version, when you get to the end of Shannon, you turn left on Hicks. For the most part shaded by trees, teased with glimpses of pretty houses, you waltz with the creek awhile, quietly ignoring the fact that you could have turned right instead…could have taken the part of the road that has Stories Attached.

You hear things through the grapevine about roads; you wonder. As a beginner, anything out of the ordinary is scary. As you gain experience, you think, “Were those warnings just for beginners, or were they for me, as well?” I seldom suffer from over-confidence, but I have as much curiosity as, say, the average cat. After a while I start to think, “Well, you know, it can’t be that bad…can it?”

I guess my cat might have been thinking that when she first burned her whiskers in a candle flame.

In March, I was due to lead a ride down to New Almaden, to see the historical landmarks. On the twelfth of February, Don and I pre-rode my route, paying attention to lanes and thinking in terms of ten bikes, not two. When I got to the planned watering hole, historic New Almaden Feed and Fuel, it was overrun with people, many of them bikers, all seeming part of a group. We didn’t like the crowds and backtracked to the local Safeway for a parking lot picnic.

Afterwards, we headed down into the sleepy little town of New Almaden, famous for the fact that it has more historical markers than people (well, not really). As we passed the Quicksilver Mines parking lot, I was heading into new territory and had a grin–wide enough to catch a few bugs, perhaps. I had some idea of what was to come, but wasn’t going to worry. The road was lovely; a bit cracked and uneven, gently hugging the side of a reservoir with its soft little curves. All was lush and green at this time of the year, and the views of fresh trees and earthy banks were a delight.

The road turned off to Hicks, and so did we. It started off innocently enough…curves and swoops, a little narrow, but nothing worse than I’d tackled before. A bit of gravel here and there, nothing I couldn’t swerve around. Rock wall on one side, water on the other as the road followed the river around. “This is a doddle!” I thought. “I can lead my club through this road. It’ll make the ride a nice, interesting loop.”

Yeah. Right.

We came to a cross-roads, and I went straight, even though there seemed to be no indication of which road we were on; no reassuring confirmation that I was heading the right way and would eventually get out of here. Suddenly, it started rising. And rising. And twisting and curving until I thought I was riding a thrashing serpent. My brow furrowed as all thoughts of doddling melted away into the past. Certain parts of me which shall remain nameless puckered. I passed a dam, wondering if this were on the way…dammit, I didn’t remember a damn dam from the map! The curves tightened and the road steepened. Up and up. Over the top in one fell swoop…then down. Then came the switchbacks, seeming to go on forever. Not many, mind you, but there might as well have been a thousand. As we got further along the horrible thought hit me–had I taken the wrong turn? Could it get any worse? Would I have to backtrack and do all these curves uphill under a quickly darkening sky? Quietly, I despaired.

At last, Don pulled over for a break. Nervous of the gravel and the incline, I pulled off to find that my feet couldn’t get any kind of a hold on the tiny granules and I didn’t dare put my side stand down. It felt like I was on a 45 degree slope. I wasn’t, but I was having a small panic attack and Mr. Logic had long since departed. Don came round and helped me lower the stand and to get off the bike. (He later helped me to put it upright–exasperated, I noticed that just a little bit further up the shoulder I would actually have been on something like level ground.) Don had a smoke and I had some adrenaline. We took pictures. Just as we set up timer shots, a rush hour’s worth of cars came running down the previously abandoned road, their laboring engines audible for a long time before they lumbered around the corner. They obviously wanted to get into our shots. I babbled one-sidedly about intensity and really hoping that this was the right road and that this had to be the worst of it.

Eventually we set out again, coasting over the gravel back onto more or less solid pavement. I prayed; “Please let this be the right road. I can’t bear to have to back-track here.” The road went steeply downhill, at times with a significant drop on one side. They provided strong motivation to make very sure I didn’t lose control. I took it easy and if I had to drop into first, I did. I wasn’t worried about anything so trivial as style as gravity sucked my bike down the road at what felt like break-neck speed.

Stray thoughts sifted through the deep concentration. “I really don’t like the twisties that much. I prefer going rapidly in a straight line. But I bet I have to learn to ride the curves. Gee, my bike handles a bit like a boat. It’s okay to not like the twisties, right?”

The gradient gentled and I caught sight of a familiar-looking creek. At last, I had confirmation: this was indeed Hicks Road, and I was on the way to normality. We passed the end of familiar old Shannon. I speeded up, danced with the creek. Now I was on the home curve. At the intersection with Camden I curled up my gloved fingers, blew on them in a gesture of mock pride, and grinned.