In Which the Hill Slug Gets Nervous and Zen

17 February 2008

After doing battle against Wal-Mart for three and a half years, we finally won. Four days ago, the Beast of Bentonville told Lawrence Township that their proposed store (next to a creek, a forest, an historic farmers market, and a whole lot of traffic) "no longer fit" their business plan. The not fitting probably had a lot to do with the lawsuit we filed against them and the township nine days ago. That was the first of two suits we planned to file, which would tie the corporate demon up in court for half a decade. Good riddance.

We had a party last night to celebrate, and we were celebrating past midnight. Now, as I pedal up to Pennington to meet the guys for a later than usual start, it's finally sinking in.

Also sinking in is the terrain I saw yesterday when Jack and I joined Cheryl, Mike B., and Jeff for an Appalachian Mountain Club hike in Voorhees State Park. There were about twenty very loud people on this hike, made louder by our having to crunch through ice and snow on the trail. "I mountain biked through this shit last winter," I told Mike. If I were to fall, I'd sure know how to do it. Jack was walking without a coat, of course, with his hands in his pockets, wearing sneakers with no treads. He didn't fall once; I came close a few times.

I realized that, compared to this crowd, mountain biking is a much more peaceful way to see the woods in the winter.

The hike took us to Fairview/Observatory Road, where I had planned to ride last year on the second double reservoir ride. This was the road we detoured from to avoid the big hill, and seeing it on foot freaked me out. But we're going to be on it this summer because at the top is a clearing that looks south towards Round Valley Reservoir.



I don't know what it is about that reservoir that makes me so happy, but it seems to affect Mike in the same way. I teased him: "This is beautiful! I'm in the world!" He chimed in, "This is beautiful! Look at this!"

Back in the woods we came upon the observatory, and then a view of Spruce Run Reservoir through the trees.



Later on, we found black bear tracks. Mike stuck his hiking pole into the frame. It worked for scale. A few minutes later, we were wondering what a black bear was doing awake in mid-February. Another hiker told us that the bears never really hibernate fully in New Jersey, and with such a warm winter, they've been out and about. That's comforting; the bear can eat the trail mix I accidentally dropped on the ground.



On our way home, Cheryl, Jack and I stopped into the Hilltop Deli. As I stepped inside, I broke into a big, goofy grin. Fortunately, nobody saw it. Last time I was here I was drenched in sweat; now we're bundled up in the high-twenties air. Cheryl got coffee; Jack and I got muffins and a bagel. They didn't taste as good as they did last summer.

So now I'm on my way to Pennington, high on the Wal-Mart defeat and panicking about 300-foot climbs. I'm going to find every hill between here and wherever we're going today. There's no way around it. I have to train.

Wait. Hold up. It's February, for chrissakes, and I'm putting the screws on already? Hell, no. I want to have fun, not pressure. This is not training damnmit. Chill out.

It's cloudy and raw when I pull into the parking lot. Chris, John D., and Mike M. are already there. I'm leading this ad-hoc ride, but I have no idea where I want to go. I have two maps with me, but that's as far as I got before I left the house.

"Where do you guys want to go?"

"Lambertville," John says. "I want to go on that great road, Alexauken Creek." Chris and Mike nod in agreement.

"Cool," I say. "No brain activity required for that."

I head for Poor Farm Road.

Poor Farm. The Dreaded Poor Farm. Sure, there are worse hills around here, but this is the one everyone talks about. This is the hill we all hear about in our first summer with the Freewheelers.

After I got Kermit, before Cheryl got Jersey Girl, when Pedro was still a bike courier in Philly, after a rain storm, the three of us decided to tackle Poor Farm once and for all. Cheryl scoped it out in her car first and reported back that it was nothing more than hype. I was ready to believe this; we didn't ride with many hill climbers back then.

The tough way up Poor Farm is from the east, off of Woosamonsa Road. I was a bundle of nerves. My legs were shaking in fear. The first thing we saw was a short, steep rise, but we got over it with no problem. "That was it?" I asked Cheryl.

"Yep," she said.

Sheesh. All that fear over nothing. The road started downhill, bending first to the right and then to the left. We swooped down among open fields, heading for the place where the road is covered in trees.

"This is where I turned around," Cheryl said, as Pedro disappeared into the woods.

"What?" But it was too late. In the trees, the road slanted sharply upwards. Crud from yesterday's rainfall littered the street, and I followed Pedro's single track up the hill. I was on my second-smallest gear when the road bent to the left.

And there it was: a wall of asphalt maybe a hundred meters long. At least I could see the top. I shifted down and stood up. I veered to the left, looking for some clean pavement, and finished the hill on the wrong side of the road.

For years afterward, I would tell the story of how Cheryl had turned her car around too early. And for years afterward, I'd climb Poor Farm's steep section on the left side. But it took many journeys up that hill before my legs stopped shaking at the prospect. Finally, a few years ago, I told myself, "I own this fucking road!" I haven't allowed myself to freak out since.

Today I have to veer to the left again, but I have a legitimate excuse. "Ice at the top of Poor Farm," I say to John as I meet him where he waits at the end. "That's what I wanna see." Today is the first time I didn't have to stand up on the hill. I credit the new gearing.

I almost wimp out when it comes to climbing Goat Hill. Usually if I throw in Poor Farm, I'll throw out the next big hill. But I'm thinking about the observatory, and I need to take Goat Hill.

At the top of Mount Airy Road, John tells us that he drove Hilda to Alexauken Creek Road just to see it. "Hilda has to ride with us," I tell him. But she and I come from the same place hill-wise: hills make us nervous. Neither one of us wants to be the one everyone else has to wait for. She's a good climber, too. I've seen her do it when she didn't know what was coming (but the look on her face at the top of Long Hill will be etched in my brain forever).

John says, "That's what I tell her, but she won't listen to me." I wouldn't either. John can pop up any hill as if it's not there. He's no gage for the rest of us mortals. "When I say a hill isn't bad, she assumes it's by my standards."

Then something pops out of my mouth I thought I'd never say, let alone think: "There are no bad hills. Just ones you're afraid of." I can't believe I just said that.

Chris smiles big. "Now you're getting it," he says. It only took me nine years.

John says, "Tell Hilda that." I'm still telling myself.

Rojo's is crowded, but we get a table. I'm trying to convince John that buying a portable French press mug is the way to go. I have one, and on the days I allow myself coffee at work (twice a week, no more), I make it so strong it might as well be crack. He's tempted.

Chris dials his cell phone and reaches Howie, who's in the hospital with pneumonia. He passes the phone around so we each get a turn to talk to him. He's as chipper as ever. "I feel fine," he says. When what he thought was allergies turned bloody, he went to the hospital. They wanted to check him in right away, but he refused. "I went home, got some cat litter, paid some bills. Bills gotta be paid. I got my pajamas. I don't want to wear what the hospital gives you, with my butt hanging out." Then he checked himself in.

I have a flat outside Rojo's. Chris counts the nicks in my rear tire, which is now three seasons old. It's so cold that the carbon dioxide cartridges freeze onto the inner tube stem. I go through two before giving up and handing it over to the guys to mess with. One more cartridge and a hand pump later, we're on our way. Three cartridges gone. This is the most expensive flat I've ever had that didn't involve slashing a tire.

We go up Rocktown Road. I could have picked worse hills, but there are some I avoid no matter what: Franklin, Swan, and Pleasant Valley. I'd have to be much more worried than this to mess with those.

I almost wimp out again when we get to Snydertown, but I force myself up. "I'm beat," I tell Mike.

He says, "Well, it is only February.

On Stony Brook Road, I tell Mike, "This one's always a bitch because it comes at the end when we're tired." As I say this, John zips past us. Mike looks over at him and back at me. "Well," I add, "Normal people, anyway."

Back in the parking lot, I get a good picture of Chris' Zaro's eyes. I need to find more eyes so I can hand them out to people. I'll have to look online. It's going to be tough: I've only seen them on those cupcakes at Penn Station (thanks to Sean for the picture), and I haven't seen those cupcakes in a long time.



By the time I get home I'm ravenous and exhausted. I don't know which to do first, eat, shower, soak my legs, or take a nap. I do all of that. Next time I go up Poor Farm, I'll stand.