Bicycling Under the Influence

California, USA
By Cat George

A sign marks the steep ride up to Lambert Bridge Winery.

I hope I don't break my neck.

The thought pops up as I hurtle down a steep hill, green vineyards rushing to meet me. Driving under the influence is dangerous; what about bicycling? Then the mellow wash of the wine spreads from limbs to head and squeezes out fear. Everything's going to be fine - as long as I remember to hit the brakes at the bottom.

Bicycles and wine-touring: they're a strange pair. A vision of one conjures lazy, tipsy afternoons; the other, grunty labor. Why combine the two, especially here in California's Dry Creek Valley, where there's a hill for every bottle of chardonnay? But these "sip and cycle" tours, whether day trips or longer, are popular here and in wine hotspots worldwide. Somehow, bicycling must augment the traditional wine tour experience. This trip with Getaway Adventures, out of Healdsburg, California, is my chance to find out.

There are six of us on today's ride: me; Todd, the tour guide; Jim and Louise, a couple who won the trip as a door prize and who unfortunately don't drink and don't like bicycling - which leaves them pushing up most of the steep hills; and my parents, Ellen and Brian, who do both drink and bicycle. (My mother would want me to say that she drinks far less often than she bicycles).

Our first stop, Lambert Bridge, is typical of the boutique wineries in the valley. Nestled inside the shingled house is a cozy tasting room, beckoning bottles lined up along the counter. I choose five different wines from the tasting menu; together, the sample servings are equal to a regular glass of wine. After trying them all, I pronounce the 2003 Old Vine Cuvee my favorite. Despite the fact that my wine expertise is limited to "box wine gives me bad hangovers," it turns out to be the most expensive. My family orders a couple of bottles. I entertain a tragic vision of an overturned bike spilling seventy dollars worth of wine into the soil, until Todd explains that he'll drive back later today to pick up our bottles.

Two cyclists take a break beside vineyards in Dry Creek Valley.

When we take to the road again, I begin to see the charm of touring by bike. In a car, the scenery would whiz by unnoticed. On two wheels, the valley rewards our languid pace. The concept of "wine country", rather than just a phrase for the mash of green between glasses of merlot, comes to life around us. Terraced hills are covered in the sharp green of the grape vines, the pale fruit just visible under the leaves. Tags on wooden posts identify the grapes: cabernet sauvignon, syrah, zinfandel. In a month, they'll be ready to harvest. The twisting length of the road is shaded by a parade of gnarled oaks. Then we turn a corner into a squat grove of olive trees, gray-green leaves rustling, and meet the full blaze of mid-summer sun.

There's a sensory factor, as well, as the wine amplifies the splash of the wind against my face, but I think - as I'm both the smallest person of the tour and the one who drank the most samples - that I may be the only one affected that way. Then my mother pedals up to me and begins to chatter about Todd, the guide. Maybe she's a bit topsy-turvy from her two sips of riesling.

"Todd," she says, "is getting his masters in mathematics." Then she whispers that he would be a more suitable boyfriend than my current flame. Besides his physical fitness and his education, she reveals, there's this:

"His family owns a vineyard near here!" I can't blame her for wanting a connection to property in the valley, which has the great weather and wine but none of the tourist crowding of nearby Napa and Sonoma. Todd's grandfather was one of the first people to plant grapes, back when this section of California was more taken with plums. That was thirty years ago; now everyone's gone to wine.

When we pause at the Raymond Burr winery, I pick out just two samples; there's another steep hill to negotiate. I start to feel as if the bicycling is making me - not thirsty, quite - but more appreciative of the wines I try. Perhaps it's the exercise making each drop feel like a prize, or our dusty efforts heightening the sense of luxury at each stop.

At the Passalacqua winery we break for lunch. While Todd prepares the platters, we head in for a final round of taste tests. The proprietor has us try two zinfandels, from different vintages, asking if we can taste the "strong difference." I start spouting a list of wine-flavor clichés: oaky, smoky, chocolate, berry-flavored, green, while my father nods knowingly and indicates that we'll take a bottle of each.

Oak barrels filled with wine at a winery in Dry Creek Valley.

The group convenes on the veranda, looking out over the gardens below, to eat lunch. When Todd admits that the various salads - a spinach, raspberry and walnut concoction, a dish with yellow tomatoes and rounds of mozzarella cheese - are all his handiwork, I start to feel like my mother wasn't wrong about his potential as a mate. Everyone tucks in, hoping heavy stomachs won't weigh us down on the ride back up the road.

When we do take to the road again, I don't feel any of the twinges I associate with long rides. Maybe it's the wine dulling the pain. Whatever it is, I'm pleased to find that bicycling hasn't robbed wine-touring of its pleasures; instead, I cycle towards town feeling like I've earned every moment of indulgence.