Leading from the Back

24 April 2008

The weather is good. The roads are dry. I’m not sick. I can see out of both eyes. Hallelujah! I’m leading a ride!

Today is the Freewheelers’ Spring Fling, where we gather at the Masonic Temple in Princeton at 1 p.m. and lead rides until 4 p.m., at which point we go inside, pig out, pick up our ride leader jerseys, and hang out with all the people we haven’t seen since the mercury dipped below forty degrees five months ago.

Except there was a screw-up this time: Nobody told us ride leaders or the coordinators that the Fling was today and we all submitted morning rides, which got published in the Freewheel. Which is fine with me. I’d rather not have twenty-five people in a hurry to get back to the lodge for the food. This way, we can take our time, get home, get showered, and not stink by the time 4 p.m. rolls around.

So I meet Cheryl at our usual corner. Mike B. is still down for the count with his version of the plague. Chris and Mike M. are at the parking lot when we get to Pennington. There’s a guy I haven’t met before but whom Cheryl told me about, named Murdo, from Glasgow by way of Montreal. He’s best buddies with Drew, also from Montreal, who went on a handful of my rides last spring. The two of them are identically matched: they’re small, muscular, friendly, and fast. Big Joe bikes in and I re-think the route so that he’ll stay for the whole ride. His back is still giving him trouble, so I figure out how to avoid the big hills. John Danek arrives. There’s one more guy at the end of the lot. None of us knows him. His name is Jerry, and he’s new to the Freewheelers.

We’re heading to Stanton, home of the Giant Muffins. Cheryl brought her coffee club card for the Stanton General Store, so I’m not allowed to go anywhere else today.

It’s clear in the first five minutes that we have a fast crew. Drew and John know each other. Joe knows Drew and Murdo; I figure this out because he’s cursing at them already. Drew, Murdo, and John are darting ahead, Mike M. and Joe close behind Cheryl. I’m in the back.

Chris is busy criticizing me, mostly telling me that Spinning over the winter has made me slow, unlike him, with his wind trainer at home. He seems to have forgotten that I’ve been riding outside, with him, along side him, all winter long. He seems also to have forgotten that I no longer care if I’m last up a hill.

I check in on Jerry, who has been holding his own up in front with Mike and Cheryl. He says he did fifty miles in the Watchungs a few days ago and that his legs could have used another day of rest. He’s the only wild card in the group; everyone else I either know or know about.

I’m having fun watching everyone zip up the hills ahead of me. John, Joe, Murdo, and Drew are clearly feeding off of each other. Mike is enjoying his new-found speed. They all wait for everyone else at every turn.

At the top of the Sourlands I give the instruction to have fun all the way to the bottom of Rileyville Road. As I crest the last roller before the descent I make sure I can see Jerry behind me. He’s there. Down I plummet.

We seem to be waiting an awfully long time at the bottom for Jerry to appear. He doesn’t.

Cheryl suggests I call the emergency number Jerry signed in with, just to tell whomever it is that Jerry seems to have left the ride without telling me, and to ask that he call me when he gets in. I dial the number. It’s disconnected. I pass the sign-in sheet around. “Tell me what you think this says.”

Half the crew can’t read it without glasses. Chris says, “This is what you get when you ride with people over forty.” The gang agrees that I dialed the right number.

Drew, Murdo, John, and Mike volunteer to climb back up to look for Jerry. I’m glad to let them do it; I’m not climbing Rileyville if I don’t have to. “They just want to go down the hill again,” Joe says.

While we wait, Chris notices a few pieces of wax left on Kermit that I didn’t manage to wipe away. “You realize you’ve done nothing but criticize me all day today, don’t you?” I ask him.

“Yeah, well…” He trails off.

It seems an eternity before Mike comes back down the hill, followed by Drew and Murdo, and then John. John had gone all the way back up to the top of the ridge without seeing Jerry.

This is my fault for not giving my usual lecture at the beginning of the ride, the one where I tell people that if they’re going to leave the ride they need to tell someone. Cheryl says, “He said he belongs to four bike clubs. He knows better.” I feel exonerated by this. We push off again towards Stanton.

As we turn onto Manners Road for a short incline, a green tractor pulls in behind us. Drew, or Murdo, or John, or somebody, says, “We’re NOT going slower than that tractor!” I say, “I am,” as it passes me. Just then Drew stops short in front of me, his chain off. Even the tractor is out of sight in the few seconds it takes to fix it. “You might want to go back down the hill and start over,” I tell him as I try to pedal fast enough to clip back in without falling over.

By the time we crest the hill everyone is so far ahead that half of them have missed the turn I plan to make. I signal, shout, and turn, hoping everyone sees me. They have, although I worry for a few minutes that I might have lost Joe. It’s a real buzz kill that I put that turn in there, just before the bottom of the hill. But the turn is worth it for the farms, the steel bridge, and the herd of cows at the edge of the pasture at the end of the road.

At some point, John asks me if I have any duct tape for Chris’ mouth. “I have a little,” I tell him. He says, “I finally set your blog as a feed and the posting stopped.”

“I couldn’t see.” I clearly have some catching up to do. “Today will definitely make it in.”

As we approach Stanton, I choose the easier, slightly longer, and possibly prettier route through the back roads part of the way up Cushertunk Mountain. There’s a bend in the road that never fails to fake people out. It’s worth the detour to see people react to what looks like a wall of a hill to climb but turns out to be a driveway. It even fools me today, and I already know it’s there. On the final turn down Stanton Mountain Road, I look to the right. Last year Tom took a picture of hay bales on this slope. There’s no hay today, just rolling hills in the distance.

Stanton General Store is hopping. The tables we’re used to sitting at in the back yard aren’t out yet. I go into the bathroom, which is in an outbuilding behind the back patio. A long green rug with black lettering lines the center of the room. It reads, inexplicably, “fresh produce.” It smells like a dentist’s office, which, considering the alternatives, isn’t really a bad thing. I refill my water bottle in the sink then go into the store.

The woman working the cash register is new, so the line is long. I find myself standing head-to-head with the biggest muffins I’ve ever seen. These are big even by Stanton standards. How much batter do they have to pour into the pans in order to get the top to be triple the size and width of the bottom? They’ve had to use a knife to excise individuals. I pull out my cell phone for a picture. Dale and Sean have to see this.



Mike looks over. “My mother told me never to eat anything bigger than my head,” he says. He’s got a sports drink and a banana. What self-control. I tell Murdo about our first foray up to Round Valley two years ago: “Whatever you do,” I’d told people, “don’t eat the whole muffin.” Mike hadn’t listened to me and he paid the price. He wasn’t the only one. “I have no self control,” he says. He sure does right now.

I don’t. I buy my twenty ounces of coffee (my first dose since last Sunday) and rent a forklift to take a chocolate chip muffin outside.

By the counter is a petition to keep Round Valley State Park open. Our governor, in an attempt to get us out of severe debt, has decided to close a handful of popular state parks, saving all of 0.3% of the state’s budget in the process. This is not going down well with the environmental, camping, and hiking sets. The backlash has been strong enough that the governor might be backing down. If you want to add to the din, click here.

Outside I have help with the muffin and listen to John and the Canadian duo tell war stories about hills John dragged them up. Across the road the trees are blooming on the hillside. Cheryl and I have the same thought: we’re remembering our fall foray up here by car, when the leaves were just starting to turn.

I call Jack to check in on him. He has a sore throat and fever today. Cheryl and Dale were right: we can’t catch a break in our house. Jack wants to go see a nurse at a walk-in clinic at a Princeton CVS. I’m calculating time and distance. It’s nearly noon, we have at least twenty-five miles to go, and I still have to bike home after that. The clinic closes at 4 p.m. I pull out my maps and start to figure out the fastest route back that won’t kill us in the process. So many ways home, so many pretty roads, so many surprises I could throw in if I had the time and energy. Which I don’t. Rainbow Hill will have to wait. Pity; I’d love to see the Canadians’ reaction. Joe would outright strangle me, though. I’m better off in the lowlands today.

As we get our gloves and helmets back on, Drew says he’s in a bit of hot water. “We have a thirteen-month old at home,” he explains.

“You fool,” I tell him.

“I told my wife I’d be home by one o’clock.”

“That ain’t happening.” It’s already past noon. As fast as he is, there’s just no way.

The route home from Stanton starts with a screaming downhill, but today a fierce headwind is pushing us back. I wait for the coffee to kick in as we cruise along Pleasant Run Road, following the stream. I’m breaking the unspoken rule of not repeating roads by turning back the way we came, but things look and feel different on the way home. Most noticeable is the amount of coasting we’re doing. It’s not so obvious on the way up that the flat roads around here aren’t really flat at all.

The rollers start as we get closer to the Sourlands. Fully caffeinated and sugared up, we’re riding in a group three-deep and chatty. From the back the Canadians burst through, in full sprint, towards the next roller. “You snooze, you lose, Danek!”

John looks up and says to us, “Sure, after they’ve been drafting off me. You know, it’s a hollow victory if I’m not chasing them.” I’m laughing too hard to be annoyed at their behavior. They remind me of Thing One and Thing Two from The Cat in the Hat. “There they go,” I say, “The Montreal Mayhem.”

As we come back to Cider Mill Road, the cows that were at the edge of the pasture have moved off to the middle. “I wonder if you can tell time by cow movements in a pasture,” I muse.

Cheryl, having missed the “I wonder,” says, “Really?” That would be pretty cool, though: We’re late. The cows are in the back forty already.

We go up the Sourlands sideways to keep Joe’s back from mutiny. The cows that live on the farm bisecting Orchard Road are nowhere to be seen today. Too bad. Today’s ride could use a cattle crossing.

John notices that my saddle might be a little low. I agree. “I’ve been feeling a bit Sluggish.” Even one millimeter in height can make a lot of difference in power.

I lead us all the way down Linvale to where it intersects with Route 31, one of the no-no roads that might as well be a river. Joe wants to get home, so he says he’s going to take 31 all the way into Pennington. He assures me it’s safe.

We go straight, up the same ridge that Poor Farm reaches, only this isn’t nearly as steep. We get to dive-bomb down the other side, too. My plan is to cross 31 and take the back roads into town, but as we approach the intersection, Joe whizzes by.

The Mayhem look at John, and John at the Mayhem. John shouts something and they turn onto 31 as a unit. I should be pissed off for letting pace-pushers take control of my ride, but I’m not. I’m laughing instead. Now we’re shifting into high gear in hot pursuit of Joe. Chris and Mike fly past me. The Mayhem catches Joe far ahead of us.

Mike gets caught at the light with me and Cheryl. We take the back roads into Pennington. “Well, they dropped the leader,” I say. I should be hopping mad by now. I’m not.

When we regroup in the parking lot, I make sure to let Murdo know that I don’t normally tolerate this sort of behavior. “But you two are so funny.” He apologizes, even though there’s no need. He tells me to warn him next time. I say I will and tell him that my rides are meant for people moving up to the B level and that I’ve had riders pull into the parking lot, see who’s there, and turn around again, intimidated. I don’t ever want that to happen again. It might have already; we lost Jerry pretty early.

Cheryl and I ride home. I get back in time to shower and take Jack to the CVS. He finishes up with the nurse (he’s got a virus) in time for us to get to the Spring Fling ten minutes after the party has officially begun.

I see a lot of people I haven’t seen since I stopped riding in Cranbury. I have to apologize to Larry. I miss riding with him. I find Hilda and ask her if she wants to ride with us to New Egypt tomorrow. She says she does and I’m psyched.

Bob and Norene show up. It’s a full ten minutes before I remember that she’s wearing a wig. She’s come out of chemo with flying colors.

Mike B. has managed to drag himself out of his house. I send him to Jack so they can be sick together.

Cheryl finds me in the crowd. “Jerry’s here,” she says. “He told me he felt his heart murmur at the top of Rileyville so he went and did his own thing. He went fifty miles.”

“Holy cow.”

“I told him he should have told one of us what was going on. He says he’s sorry.”

I look over the crowd but I don’t see him.

Michael H., our new Club President, calls everyone to attention. He welcomes us and does the usual Presidential thing, and then it’s Larry’s turn to hand out the ride leader jerseys. This can be tedious if you don’t know who any of the ride leaders are. Jack, standing against the back wall, is probably bored out of his skull. Larry introduces me as Our Lady of Perpetual Headwinds. People who don’t know me must be very confused right now.

This year the party is being catered. I’m hungry, but there’s nothing left that resembles food as far as my veggie brain is concerned. It’s just as well.

Bob wants to go to Tiger Noodle for dinner. Jack is so out of it that he’s reading in the car by the time we’re ready to go at 6 p.m. We wind up at Ya-Ya Noodle, Tiger’s sister restaurant, instead, since Tiger is in Princeton, which is mired in Communiversity crowds today. Hank, Terry M., Michael, Carol, and Terry S. are already there at their own round table. We get a small table next to theirs. After most of their crowd has left, Michael and Terry S. pull chairs up to our table and we chatter away until 9 p.m.

At home I raise my seat by a millimeter or so, get my water bottles ready, send around an email for tomorrow’s impromptu Not Cranbury ride, and collapse into bed with Jack and the cats. I’ll figure out the route to New Egypt tomorrow.

The alarm goes off at 7:30, and Cheryl calls seconds later. “The roads are wet,” she says. It’s off to the gym for more of that Spinning Chris loves so much.

Next Saturday is our big trip to Pluckemin for non-stop scenery, a couple of monster hills, and the Best Downhill Ever. What are the odds I catch Jack’s virus on Friday?