Behind this crop is the Sourland Mountain.
Garboski Road, when stuff is green:
So green that it looks better in black and white:
We stopped at Rojo's, where, this being Sunday, we found seats. As we were about to leave, Blake walked in, halfway through doing his own thing. I suggested he go back with us for a while, which he did, up Quarry/Rocktown.
Even when Blake is chillin', he's faster than the speed of light. He was less riding with us than waiting for us in the shade at the top. He headed down Dinosaur Hill. We went straight across the ridge, from Rocktown to Mountain, across Linvale, and into the Cathedral.
On our way back into Hopewell, I tried to remember what Dustin's designation was on Rileyville Road. Not the highest point in Mercer County; that's over by Pleasant Valley.
Miss Piggys' shifting was starting to get annoyingly sloppy. I've been adjusting the cables myself, but today her behavior was reminiscent of the mess from the past five years: losing the middle, chain rub, and difficulty moving the front derailleur up the rings. I figured I'd best run her by the good folks at Hart's, to make sure everything was in the right universe before I started messing with the cables again.
Oscar put Piggy up on the stand, declared the cables very loose, and then worked with the shifter. He noticed it was making a creaky noise, and popped open the plastic cover on the underside of the bottom bracket where the cables are internally routed. He noticed some corrosion.
"How could that happen? It's sealed?"
"Stuff gets in up here," he said, showing me where the derailleur cable emerges from the frame. Blimey. He squirted some penetrating lube into the hole, gave it a few seconds, and went back to shifting. "It's better," he said, but I'll need new cables soon enough. Best to go with teflon-coated ones, he said, as if I were going to mess with internally-routed cables myself.
"Park Tools has a kit," he said, "with cable guides and magnets."
Nuh-uh. I'm neither that smart nor that brave. And sure as hell not that patient.
"I want my bikes to work," I said. "I'm giving the internally-routed ones to you guys."
So, November 1 to July 24 is just about nine months, during which I've put a paltry 899 miles on the frame. I've adjusted the cables myself twice and brought it back to the shop just this once. Not bad for a bike called Miss Piggy. I'm not even sure I'd count today's trouble as a true Piggy Problem. I'll have to consult the judges. You know who you are.