Fifth Wheel

2 March 2008

With snow still on the ground but not on the roads, we're following a route Mike B. snagged from the Morris Area Freewheelers. Cheryl is meeting a new friend, Dave, up here. There's MikeAndTheresa. And there's me, the fifth wheel. I look at it as a scouting mission, since I'm only slightly familiar with about half of the roads on today's route.

Most starting points are a few miles away from the pretty stuff. Not today. It starts almost right away. But we really get into it on Rockaway Road. The brown river contrasts with the white snow and crystal blue sky. I don't even mind the cold and the wind.







MikeAndTheresa are behind me, glued together in a lateral tandem. Dave and Cheryl are up ahead. In this formation we meet our first big hill on Hoffmans Corner Road. I pedal slowly and get some Zen: "If the hill is too big to tackle all at once, break it into little pieces." When I run out of that, I think, "It is what it is." I channel Matt Rawls: "Pedal, pedal, pedal."

At the top is a plateau on a curved clearing, way above everything, looking out onto neighboring ridges. I tell everyone to go on ahead while I get some pictures. My cell phone camera doesn't do it justice.



As I round the corner, MikeAndTheresa are giving each other tonsilectomies. I holler, "Get a room! Get a room!" as I pass, but I don't think they hear me. Ahead is a patch of ice as the road careens downhill in a bumpy fashion. I ride the breaks. The view is astounding, but I can't look or I'll tumble.

At the bottom, Mike says he wants to climb the hill from this side. Theresa and I tell him to go ahead; we'll wait down here.

We're following the Raritan River now, on our left. People are out walking dogs in droves, perhaps because here is probably the only flat surface for miles.

We reach Califon only to find that the rest stop is closed. It's Sunday. We contemplate holding out till Oldwick, but I know we have a few big hills between here and there. Cheryl asks some passersby if there's anything else around. The point us towards a general store back over the bridge.

Snow is piled high against the porch where we park our bikes. The picture I snap makes us look like lunatics riding skinny tires in a snowstorm:



No muffins! I settle for PB&J and 16 ounces of the brown stuff. Colombian. I should fly out of here once this stuff hits. Cheryl is eating PB&J too. Mike is sniffing at our sandwiches, after devouring one of his own. I don't catch the hint, but Cheryl does and gives him some of hers. It's not enough. He gets up and comes back with a stack of cookies. It's not enough. He pulls out a bag of cashews and makes quick work of them. It's not enough. He disappears and comes back with a bagel. I'm thinking I should start calling him "Blue Crab." If I remember right, they'll eat anything, and Mike's stance on the bike is sort of crab-like. [I checked with my marine biologist friends from grad school. A blue crab will, in fact, eat just about anything in its path.]

Leaving Califon we get confused. Mike remembers an instant hill, but we're following the Raritan along a flat road instead. We turn around after a mile or so, get back into Califon, and I check my maps. We were right the first time; we turn around and re-re-trace our path. Soon enough the road starts to climb.

I watch Cheryl, who is far enough ahead of me to give me a sense of what's coming. When she stands, I know she's hit a tough spot. I'm looking for her to start coasting, or stop, which would mean she's found the top, but she just keeps pedaling. I start to panic, but I get a grip and do more slicing into little pieces. Eventually it's over.

At the top, I make myself clearly misunderstood when Mike, Cheryl, and I get into a heated discussion. What they perceive as regaling me with tales of hilly glory that I missed, I perceive as bragging about something I'm not good enough to do. I've been trying to find words for it for years, but I can't. The closest I can get is, "If a biker does a century and there's nobody to witness it or brag to, does it still count?" I tell them, "It makes me feel inadequate." I feel better having said it; I wonder how long it will last.

We look to our right, where we're headed. Dave looks with a touch of horror at the ridges we have yet to cross. Mike says it's mostly downhill from here. I believe my eyes. But the worst is indeed over as we head to Oldwick. We don't need another rest stop, but Cheryl and I insist Dave see the general store.

It's an old house that's now the center of activity in this tiny town. Outside the view is of hills in the distance, each with its own house. In the yard are wooden chairs and tables for bikers to use. Inside is a labyrinthine mess of a general store, bakery, and greasy spoon. Tables and chairs are where the living and dining rooms probably used to be. The bathroom is down a hall next to what once might have been the pantry.

The joint is jumping. I buy a muffin to take home. Cheryl gets more coffee. Dave contemplates a sandwich (but only contemplates). Mike finds a hunk of coffee cake and downs it. Outside, I take pictures:







Today's ride is a jumble of scenery: stone houses, horse farms, fuzzy banded cows (*), lots of Canada geese, big houses with character (because they're real mansions, not McMansions), only one cat, and lots of dogs.

On our way home, I take one more picture at the end of Vliettown Road.



(* We've seen cows like these before. Mike H. and I weren't sure what they're really called, but he'd been calling them "banded cows." I suggested "Oreo cows." Pregnant ones would be "Double Stuff." For the record, they're brown on the ends, white in the middle, and sort of fuzzy.)