Hop Kiln is a Sonoma County Landmark

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST . . . After an hour of cycling Westside Road, we parked our bikes at Hop Kiln Winery — one of the county’s most famous landmarks. The building, a former hop kiln, was built in 1905 by a crew of Italian stonemasons and is on the registry of National Historic Trust Buildings. The winery, with its wood beams and floors, was inviting and comfortable. Grateful to step into the air-conditioned coolness, I browsed among the art gallery and gift shop, admiring the grape-themed paraphernalia; then I joined Jennifer, Randy, and Ken in the tasting room.

Randy was describing a cabernet as “meaty,” and Jennifer was raving about her glass of “Big Red,” which, according to the label, had hints of chocolate and tobacco flavors. “Chocolate and tobacco?” she laughed. “No wonder I like it. ”

Meanwhile, a chatty pourer explained the differences between lactic acid and malic acid. The latter, she said, gives chardonnay a “buttery” texture. I sampled a white blend and was charmed by its name — “Thousand Flowers.” But I ended up purchasing a rose mostly for its brilliant fiery color. Randy bought a few bottles, too. And as we lugged our purchases out the door and into the van, I understood the wisdom of a support vehicle.

A blast of hot air hit us when we stepped outside. The temperature, it seemed, had soared a good 20 degrees while we were indoors. As we continued our ride, the sun beat down on my shoulders, burning my back despite gobs of sunscreen. My strength sapped, I struggled up slight inclines that I would have glided over in cooler weather. One hill overlooking the Russian River, while not particularly steep, seemed to stretch forever. “It (huff). Is (puff). Really (huff). Hot (huff, puff),” I complained, as my legs spun in tiny, ineffective circles. Jennifer wheezed her way past me. “This is grueling,” she said, her face splotched fuschia and glistening with sweat.

We spotted the van parked a few feet away. Embarrassed for Ken to see how slowly I was pedaling, I resolutely stared straight ahead. He stretched his hand out the window and blasted me with a spray of cold water from a squirt bottle.

Randy had dismounted near the end of Westside Road and waited for me in a small patch of shade. He pointed down at the river. “Let’s take a little dip,” he said. “We can chill and relax.” He suggested that we pile into the van and drive to the shore.

I meekly protested. “I thought the whole point is to bike,” I said.

“Normally, we would,” he said. “But in this heat . . . .”

Next: relaxing by the river, biking to Bodega Bay

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