The Icy Roads to Sergeantsville

I'm a month behind already. Sheesh.

This was back on February 3, when we thought we were going to get a day a lot warmer than we wound up getting.



As usual, I'm running late and have to sprint to the meeting corner where Cheryl will be waiting for me. It doesn't help that I get halfway down the block without my helmet; I'm in such a rush that I don't really process the fact that there is frost on the grass. But I make it to the corner on time for a change.

Almost to Pennington, a woman's voice calls out from a passing car, "You girls need a ride?" It's Irene. She and Henry are at the parking lot with Chris and Gordon (whom I haven't shared a ride with in ages) when Cheryl and I get there. Henry and Irene have the biggest winter road boots any of us have ever seen. Chris has his triple. He's put his Zaro's eyes on the panier.

I choose the usual route to Sergeantsville, but backwards. That means passing through Honey Brook farm, which greets us with the smell of rotting broccoli first thing in the morning.

I look for the great blue heron on Stony Brook but we don't see it. Going up the hill, we sort ourselves by weight, which puts Irene, Cheryl, and Gordon well in the lead.

The roads have some icy spots, but it isn't until we get to Linvale at the top of the Sourland Mountain that things go bad. With the sun glinting off the blacktop, none of us can tell if we're looking at shiny tar or shiny ice. Chris even clips out as he coasts down the hill, and if he's going to clip out, I'd damn well better. Irene and I cling to the side of the road, feathering our brakes all the way down. I never do figure out if we're riding next to ice or tar.

I decide to take the sunny route from there on. We hit one more ice slick on Rocktown Road, and that one is in full sunlight. I say to Gordon, "You know, after eight seasons of biking you'd think I'd pretty much know everything, but I obviously don't." He says that there's always something new to learn. The lesson: If it was cold and wet yesterday, stay out of the shade today.

We stay out in the open all the way to Sergeantsville. As usual, I'm greeted with, "Long time, no see!" by Sun, who manages to make me feel welcome and guilty at the same time. He's right, though. The last time he saw me, I was oozing fresh road rash. That was the first weekend in October, four months ago already.

Cheryl and I go for the large coffees, of course. I break with tradition -- homemade cherry nut bread -- and go for a chocolate muffin. Chocolate muffins trump everything, especially if their tops are big and crusty. Cheryl stays with tradition, so we all get to eat everything.

By now it feels a good ten degrees warmer, maybe more. Going downhill on 523 out of Sergeantsville feels like going out through the in door. Everything looks different in the opposite direction, so different that I almost miss the turn towards the graveyard. I look for the Rittenhouse headstone.

By now everyone has figured out that after the free-fall that is Sandy Ridge-Mount Airy Road we're faced with a big climb back to Rocktown Road. I've only gone this way a handful of times. The first was a nightmare, made tolerable only by a chummy calico cat on a porch at the top of the hill. I haven't seen the cat since, but the way up has been getting progressively easier.

I need a good song to get me up this one, I think to myself. I have a few tenths of a mile to get something good in my head, and at the last second, the perfect song happens:

"Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn" (by the White Stripes, on Icky Thump)

Singing
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh

Well the hills are pretty and rollin'
But the thorn is sharp and swollen
And the man plays a beautiful whistle
But he wears a prickly thistle

Singing
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh

The silver birches pierce through an icy fog
Which covers the ground most daily
And the angels which carry St. Andrew high
Are singing a tune most gaily

One sound can hold back a thousand hands
When the pipe plays a tune forlorn
And the thistle is a prickly flower
Aye, But how it is sweetly worn

Singing
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Li De Li De Li Oh Oh
Well A Li De Li De Li Oh Oh

Fully caffeinated, I sing out loud as I plunge downhill past the first of two ascents. It's only February, but two songs from the 2008 playlist have found their roads.

One more hill and we're finished with this climbing nonsense. We have Dinosaur Hill to get over, so I choose Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues:"

Johnny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten

Maggie comes fleet foot
Face full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Plants in the bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Maggie says that many say
They must bust in early May
Orders from the D. A.
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Walk on your tip toes
Don't try "No Doz"
Better stay away from those
That carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows

Get sick, get well
Hang around a ink well
Ring bell, hard to tell
If anything is goin' to sell
Try hard, get barred
Get back, write braille
Get jailed, jump bail
Join the army, if you fail
Look out kid
You're gonna get hit
But users, cheaters
Six-time losers
Hang around the theaters
Girl by the whirlpool
Lookin' for a new fool
Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters

Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles

(Copyright © 1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music)

I annoy Irene by reciting the lyrics out loud as we turn onto Rock Road. She humors me by listening.

We decide to take a detour all the way down Bear Tavern Road to Jacob's Creek Road, one of my all-time favorites. Near the bottom, Bear Tavern is so pot-holed that I barely get a chance to hold onto the handlebars with both hands from all the hazard-pointing that I'm doing. The wooden bridge over the creek, which once sounded like a machine gun every time a car rolled over, has since been reinforced, but not completely silenced.

Irene and Henry haven't seen Jacob's Creek Road before. It follows the creek on the left side, and on the right are houses hidden by trees and hills. The whole road is under a canopy of branches. Irene loves it, so the detour is worth the extra time.

Back in the parking lot, I use my cell phone to take a picture of Chris' Zaro's eyes to go along with the photos of mine and John D's. I also take a picture of Henry's massive boots.

I get home half an hour earlier than I'd expected, much to my surprise and to Jack's. I take out my cell phone to send the pictures to my email account. The phone's software crashes. I try again. Same thing. Three days later, AT&T declares my phone officially, prematurely, under warranty, dead, and with it the recent pictures. A day after that, I have a new phone with a better camera (and a better shot of Chris' Zaro's eyes). You'll see the pictures I took starting with the next Hill Slug Chronicles installment.