19 April 2008
Maybe I never really got over the virus I brought home from Portland. Maybe it was because the next weekend I went all-out in a rainy morning Spinning class and then followed the Joes for 50 miles up Route 29 that afternoon (stupid, stupid, stupid – Jack was out of town and therefore unable to inject a dose of rationality). Or maybe it was just dumb luck that a few days later I woke up, with a fever, coughing wrong-colored gobs. Whatever the reason, three feverish days, a chest x-ray, and a viral diagnosis later saw me in no condition to lead a bike ride into the Sourlands.
Thanks go to Cheryl for leading my ride that day. I was so out of it that when she called me the next day to see how I was and to report on the mayhem that was the Sunday Cranbury ride – business as usual – I’d forgotten what she’d done the day before.
By the weekend of April 19 I seemed to have my lungs back, so I went with the Joes and the Mikes for a metric to Belmar. Mike B. picked me up at home and we had a good, long chance to talk for the first time in a long time.
The Joes sure do love their Belmar ride; I’ve been on a few, and it’s never the same route twice. I’ve never really liked Belmar. It lacks the charm of Cape May and the nudity of Sandy Hook. But it is the easiest spot of ocean to get to from where we all live. I’ve learned by now to pack my own lunch because the Joes don’t stop at the sandwich shop at the edge of the old rail line bike trail.
The weather was a slice of perfect summer: no humidity, clear skies, and temperatures nearing eighty degrees. I was in full summer regalia for the first time since, probably, September. We started off from Etra Park near Hightstown, into the wind. I immediately started coughing. Big Joe, of course, feigned annoyance. I made a mental note to get up behind him every time another coughing fit came on, just to be sure he’d hear me.
We were flying along in a good pace line for a while before I noticed that there seemed to be more traffic than usual, but I figured the guys knew where they were going. It wasn’t until we came upon a four-way, four-lane intersection that Big Joe declared, “This sucks.” We pulled into a driveway and Little Joe pulled out a map. It looked like we’d be stuck here until we passed Route 9. Mike B. said, “Let’s go back to Etra Park and start over.” I probably coughed again.
It wasn’t all bad: I did see a sign that pointed to Manasquan and Matawan both. Two more for the Garden State Stomp, but I didn’t get a picture. I’m sure I’ll never be by there again on purpose. Oh well.
Mike M., 25 pounds lighter (“I stopped drinking so much beer.”) was having a grand old time pulling the rest of us. Mike B., having covered too much distance during the week, wasn’t feeling his best. Three days later he’d come down with a bacterial respiratory infection and a fever to call his very own. I was in the back, trying to regulate my breathing in between coughing fits. Three days later I’d be wearing an eye patch, but that’s another blog entry.
We stopped one more time so the Joes could check Little Joe’s map. The Joes, lost! Who’d a thunk it? There was a very little, very old graveyard by the road. I thought I took a picture of it, but apparently I only thought I did.
As we approached Spring Lake we could feel the temperature drop by what must have been ten degrees. On the boardwalk was a long-distance relay race. I looked at the monster mansions facing the sea, wondering if any were foreclosed. The brick gate at the edge of town, where Belmar begins, was half torn down, undergoing repair. The line at Dunkin Donuts was, as ever, long, and they were out of muffins, but I did get a giant iced coffee and a bagel (good and mushy inside).
The guys ate their sandwiches and I worked on the bagel crust and a trail mix bar. Big Joe and Mike B. helped devour the bagel guts. Before we left I poured the remains of my coffee into my water bottle and asked if the guys minded if I got a few shots of the shore. “Sure, Tom,” Big Joe said. Tom’s photos are far too good for me to have taken offense at this, but it was a worthy pot-shot all the same. If you aren’t a target for Joe, you’re nobody. If he directs a “Fuck you” at you, you know you’re in good with him.
We had a tailwind on the way back. This never happens.
Mike M. was hauling beer-free ass down the road. I tucked in behind Big Joe, coughing without breathing and trying to breathe without coughing. Mike B. stayed behind me, out of sympathy or exhaustion, I’m not sure which. Little Joe suggested another rest stop at the Sunrise Deli at the edge of Turkey Swamp.
A few miles from the park, the Mikes and Little Joe took off, leaving me and Big Joe to grumble in peace. I felt pretty bad when I got back to the parking lot, but I was so close to seventy miles that I circled the lot a few times to get the round number. After this much pain, I needed that “70.0” to justify it. I felt like barfing as I climbed into Mike’s Jeep. What a way to train for a century, I thought. One week off, one week on. This can’t work.
When we got home I invited Mike into our screened porch in back of the house, where I knew by the hour that Jack would just be pouring his afternoon tea. Mike collapsed into one of our cushioned chair and I brought us water. Neither of us felt like moving. Jack, having caught a bit of my virus, but without the lung goop, wasn’t full of energy either, so the three of us talked about Shakespeare plays for a while. Mike finally mustered the energy to lift himself up and went home. I fell asleep for twenty minutes right where I was, then stumbled upstairs to take a shower and soak my legs.
Jack and I went to sleep early. If my legs felt good in the morning, I’d go over to Bob Parson’s hilly ride. As one of the Anchor House crowd, he’s into going vertical, but I like him and the people he rides with, like Michael H. and Barbara, so I’m willing to be intimidated every now and then. I fell asleep hoping to make it to the morning without coughing.
I got as far as 4:11 a.m. when I felt a tickle in my throat. I sat up and could tell that my eyes had crusted over during the night, as they’d been doing for the past three days. I knew I was in danger of re-injuring my cornea; this is how recurrent corneal abrasion happens, textbook. I opened my left eye, then, very carefully, slowly, tried to open the right one.
FUCK! No. I did not just scratch my cornea. I did not. It’s just sore, that’s all. I stumbled into the bathroom. Both eyes were red. Must be allergies, that’s all. I put the requisite medicine in my right eye and refused to open it again until the alarm went off at 8 a.m.
When I sat up again, it seemed I’d dodged a bullet. I put more medicine in and got dressed for the ride.
It was cloudy and a good deal cooler than the day before, but Bob got a good size crowd. He was merciful and didn’t send us up Poor Farm. Perhaps my quiet chants of “Woosamonsa, Woosamonsa” helped influence his decision to go up Woosamonsa instead.
At the rest stop in Sergeantsville I checked my eye. It didn’t look red and only felt a bit off. I told Barbara that it “feels like it’s gonna blow.” But for the rest of that day, and halfway through the next, it didn’t.
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