Sunday, June 22, 2008

John Powers Tribute Ride

21 June 2008

Close to one hundred people showed up for the John Powers Tribute rides yesterday.

After the ride we went to the River Horse brewery in Lambertville. John and Carolyn were there. Carolyn has completely recovered from her heart attack. John said that he's lost fifty percent of his heart capacity. But he went out for a bike ride recently and covered fifteen miles. Not bad considering it's only been two months since he dialed 911.

Michael Heffler announced that we raised nearly $1200 for the American Heart Association and St. Francis Medical Center.

I went on Michael's C+ ride. There were about twenty of us, and Michael found nearly every hill between Pennington and Lambertville. He did show some mercy and took us up Woosamonsa instead of Poor Farm.

I finally got some pictures of Goat Hill and Mount Airy.

Here's Goat Hill:





Here's Mount Airy:


Hill Slugs Metric to Somewhere



15 June 2008

In all the excitement about the death march double reservoir ride I forgot to mention that halfway through it the clacking sound in my pedals got worse. It felt and sounded the same way those Schwinn Spinning bikes do right before a pedal comes off. So I took Kermit in to see Ross right away. Four days later he called to tell me that my cranks had a catastrophic, structural failure that Full Speed Ahead is replacing for free. He threw on some Ultegra cranks to get me through the next few weeks, and he put in a new bottom bracket for good measure.

So I led the Hill Slugs Metric to Somewhere on shiny, borrowed cranks.

I called this ride a "Metric to Somewhere" because when we go to these little, out-of-the-way towns we always say they're "in the middle of nowhere." But they’re not. There’s always a distinct sense of place in these towns – Sergeantsville, Stanton, Oldwick, Clinton – that you don’t get when you drive through the strip mall hell of the towns we live in – Lawrence, West Windsor, Ewing, and even parts of Princeton. When we go up to Oldwick or Stanton or Clinton or Sergeantsville, we remember what the places look like. That doesn’t work in West Windsor. These little towns have been untouched by time and sprawl. They’re the parts of New Jersey that those who mock it have never seen.

Being that I’m a week behind and people are starting to ask where the write-up for the metric is, I’ll try to keep this one short. Ha.

*****

Mike B. and I carpooled to the Orchard Road elementary school in Skillman. Cheryl decided she’d had enough of long rides and opted out of this one. Mike M. had to lead a ride in Cranbury. Tom led a ride up here yesterday. But even if it was just going to be me and Mike, I knew we’d have fun.

I was surprised at the parking lot. For the first time in a long time there were more women than men: we had me, Barb, Marilyn, and Susan, and Mike B and Garry. And for the first time in a long time, I was leading in good weather: warm, but not hot; humid, but not very.

In the parking lot Marilyn put on a head wrap. She said, tongue in cheek, “I look beautiful.”

So, of course, Mike replied, “Will you marry me?”

She said, “Do you have money?”

We went up Long Hill Road. Another first: we all stuck together.
stick together on Long Hill, a first?

Somewhere along the way Mike B. looked at my little Kermit puppet hanging from my saddle bag and said, “You have Frog Power.” Then he started singing, to the tune of “If I Only Had a Brain” from The Wizard of Oz:

If I only had a frog
I'd be happy
I could sing with the best of them
Ribbit! Ribbit!

The view from Higginsville is always good. But the pictures don’t show it well.




On Lazy Brook Road Mike and Garry wondered what other Wizard of Oz tunes they could drum up.

Yo-we-o!
Ee-yo-yo!

“Hey! Save that for the way back!” We hadn’t even really started climbing yet.

On Pleasant Run Garry got a flat. I had one here last year. Maybe it’s from riding so close to the edge of the road. There’s not much of a shoulder.

While we were waiting Marilyn got a voicemail from her daughter: “I’m having a Benadryl Moment,” her daughter said, coming from a house with cats, her eyes swollen.

We’d just started up again when I saw the plastic cows that Irene said I missed last time. I got off my bike and walked up onto the lawn to get a better shot. As I was taking a picture a car pulled into the driveway. The owner. Whoops. “Sorry!” I called out. He called back, “It’s okay!” He must get that a lot, but what else would one expect with plastic cows on one’s lawn?



Tom sent me another great picture yesterday. It was of hay bales on Stanton Mountain Road: [UPDATE: TOM SAYS HE GOT IT WRONG; THIS IS ACTUALLY BLACK RIVER ROAD, WHICH EXPLAINS WHY IT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE STANTON MOUNTAIN ROAD.]



So we took the back way into Stanton to get a look for ourselves. There certainly were bales in the field, but unless Tom got off his bike or went down the farm’s driveway for a close-in shot of the next field over, there weren’t as many as yesterday. I took a bunch of pictures anyway:






What is it about hay bales and Raritan River crossings that I feel the need to document every one? I’m pretty sure the hay bale thing has played itself out. As for views of the Raritan from steel bridges, I might be finished with that, too. All that’s left, then, is my fascination with my favorite puddle, Round Valley Reservoir. I have to admit that some of the zing has gone out of seeing the reservoir, too.

Mike found $32 on the road yesterday. I told him he should treat us all in Stanton with it. Karma or something. So he did.

Someone at the Stanton General Store can’t spell:



Turns out that double fug is a pretty good flavor. The coffee was good, too.

After I finished the muffin top I sent the picture of the sign to Dale and Sean, along with the message, “Mike B says I have Frog Power.”

It’s a long story, but Dale and I have matching boxing frog pens that we found in Las Vegas. For my birthday card this year Dale took a picture of her frog pen and sent it to me. Always looking for a way to up the goof ante, I took a picture of my frog pen next to her frog picture. Now it’s her turn.





I also sent the picture of the cows to Irene, quoting her: “Quintessential New Jersey.”

I convinced Marilyn that her saddle could stand to be moved up and forward. She let me do it, which is pretty trusting of her considering she’s only been on a couple of my rides. Between the two of us we had the right hex wrenches.

We headed towards Round Valley after that. Garry was riding next to me. He’s like a jack rabbit on hills, bounding from behind in a whirlwind spin to zip up a hill ahead of everyone. I told him that the reservoir hill takes a while to really get going. And when it finally got going, Garry got going with it. I just kept an eye out for the telephone pole that Tom had in his picture of us climbing this hill last year.



Tom likes this one because “it shows the agony” on my face. “The telephone pole shows how much of a hill it is,” he said. He has a point. Often a hill doesn’t look like one in a picture because there’s often nothing in the shot that suggests the angle. When I found the pole I wasn’t even very tired. Good ol’ caffeine.

We pulled into the boat launch area because Marilyn wasn’t sure she wanted to keep her seat height the way I’d set it. I thought her position looked better and that she climbed the hill better, so she decided to give it a few more miles. Meanwhile Susan and I took pictures.






I’ve finally been to this reservoir enough times that I’m no longer ecstatic when I see it. Even Mike, who stood on his bike an yelped with joy the first time he saw it, didn’t yelp quite as enthusiastically this time. I’m still amazed when I look down from the road to the berm side and see just how high up we are. No cell phone photograph can capture the steepness of the berm nor the array of cement gullies cut into the vast lawn beneath.

You know what? It seems my fascination isn’t over. I just spent half an hour looking online for pictures of the Round Valley Reservoir berm. Finding nothing I zoomed in on the mapmyride.com page I used to make the route, chose the satellite view, and took pictures of the computer screen with my digital camera using my macro lens.

Here's the northeastern berm:



Here's the northwestern one:




If you want to see the whole route, go to http://www.mapmyride.com/ride/united-states/nj/rocky-hill/793959490262 and click on “satellite” at the bottom right corner of the map. You can zoom in and out. Pretty cool.

Here’s an aerial view of Round Valley and Spruce Run from Wikipedia. Spruce Run is under the wing on the upper right. The view is facing southwest. In the foreground are the hills we climbed after we left Round Valley.




Here's a screen shot of a satellite image of Round Valley and Spruce Run. The latter is on the left.



In Lebanon, just before we crossed Route 22, I told everyone that this was the point of no return. Whoever crossed the highway with me was in for the rest of the ride. Nobody turned around.

I decided to play a mind game at the corner of Bissel and Deer Hill. “Okay, listen up. To our left is a huge, what-the-fuck hill.” I paused. “And we’re not going to do it.” Barb looked disappointed but everyone else looked relieved.

I got us to Rockaway Road again. The stone house, surrounded by tulips last time we were here, is circled by a different set of flowers this time. I stopped for pictures of the creek at the same spot as the last two times. Susan and Marilyn got pictures also. From the south this road gradually goes uphill, but the road is so pretty that nobody seems to notice, and if they do nobody minds. Rockaway Creek winds back and forth on this road. I lost track of how many times we crossed over it.





At the top we turned onto Sawmill in Mountainville. I didn’t get any pictures, but this road is another beauty. To the left is a steep, forested rise, and to the right is a gorge leading to Rockaway Creek. We were under a canopy of trees the whole time. We ambled along slowly and peacefully up a slight grade. When I got home I looked online at a topo map. We were going around Hell Mountain. People are living on Hell Mountain.



Halfway through the road Cheryl called. “There was a huge crash on the Cranbury ride,” she said, sounding shaken. “It happened right behind me. The guy went over the bars and skidded on his face. He was out cold.”

“Holy cow. Can I call you back when we get to Oldwick? We’ll be there in a few minutes.” So much for peace.

At the end of Sawmill we turned right onto Old Turnpike and flew downhill for miles into Oldwick. Outside the general store I told the gang, “If you don’t behave I’m turning this ride right around back up that hill!”

Everyone but Mike went inside for food. I took some more pictures from the usual spot.





Mike hovered over me as I called Cheryl for more details. I had to repeat everything she said so Mike could hear it. “Faculty Road. New guy. Endo. Face skid. Out cold. Ambulance. Four cop cars. He was conscious when they took him away. Mike Moorman was leading. He went to the hospital with the guy. Bob somebody. Nobody knows him.” Cheryl was badly shaken. The crash happened right behind her. She didn’t want to lead any more rides, and we agreed that Mike probably won’t want to either. I can’t say I’d blame him. There were twenty people on the ride; that’s too many.

Inside the general store it was so crowded that Marilyn and I gave up on ordering PB&J sandwiches and grabbed energy bars instead. We all sat outside. Next to us sat a pair of breeders, she staring out into space with her hand on her swollen belly, he yakking away on his cell phone, looking straight ahead with his hand on hers. In all the time we sat and ate neither looked at each other and the guy kept on talking. We glanced over in amazement.

I went in to use the bathroom. When I came out the breeders were still there, but the dynamic had changed. I walked over to Barb and Marilyn and said, “Check it out. Now she’s on the phone.”

Marilyn said, “Yeah, we noticed.”

Barb said, “They’re meant for each other.”

It took us forty miles and forever to get to Oldwick. Now we were heading home with thirty miles to go. It seemed to take no time at all for us to get all the way back to Readington. The sun was directly overhead and starting to bake us. Marilyn or Barb said, “I’m roasting.” Barb or Marilyn said, “Like a chicken.” Someone else said, “Can we use another analogy?”

Hoo-boy. We’d better get into the shade fast. I decided that we should get back home as quickly as possible. At Pleasant Run again I told everyone that we were going off the cue sheet and taking this road all the way to the Neshanic River. “Is everyone okay for water? We’re going to skip the last rest stop.” Everyone was cool with that, so we dropped the hammer and mashed down the road all the way to Route 202 and beyond. Marilyn knew where she was and seemed to be picking up steam. She was well in front of us.

At Neshanic I asked if people wanted to climb back up the Sourlands or go around. Marilyn said, “Around.” She looked tired. “But you guys can do whatever you want.”

“No,” we said, “Let’s stick together.” Barb looked over at Zion Road, which leads up the mountain, and looked disappointed again. But we turned away from the mountain and went home the flat way, hammering even more than before.

We got to the elementary school with almost 67 miles, three short of the goal. This was the longest ride Susan and Marilyn had ever done.

In the car on the way home I checked my cell phone for messages. There was one from Irene about the plastic cows: “The NJ Tourism Board is interested. Have your people call their people.”

Sunday, June 8, 2008

How Not to See a Reservoir, Part IV



7 June 2008

As Yogi Berra once said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

Today’s heat index is going to near 100 degrees, and I’m leading the double reservoir ride from Frenchtown. Here I’d thought that by putting it in early June I’d avoid last year’s roasting death march, but the weather gods seem to have caught up with me.

Mike B (always searching for his name in the blog) picks me up at 7:15. Cheryl’s bike is already here because the two of us put her old saddle back on last night. I pull a crumbling cooler out of the garage and load it with ice packs, water, and a travel mug of half-and-half ice coffee to share with Cheryl. Mike (because it’s all about him) and I are getting pretty efficient with loading all three bikes into the back of his SUV, and Cheryl and I are getting good at putting $5 bills on his dashboard for gas money.

As we drive north on Route 31, Cheryl and I sharing the coffee, we’re in the same foggy haze as we had last summer for this ride. Today, though, the humidity is supposed to drop and the sun will come out pretty soon.

The haze is so thick I can’t see across the Frenchtown bridge. The air in Frenchtown is still pretty cool, though. At least the ground isn’t wet from the humidity this time.

Mike M. calls to tell me he’s running late. We’ll wait. There’s no way we’d leave without one of the true Hill Slugs. Tom couldn’t ride with us today. If he were here, we’d have the full Slug complement.

Joe B. pulls up. He’s one of those strong, quiet hill guys who shows up on my rides once in a while. He used to be a ride leader.

Marilyn drives in, looking for Mike H’s ride, scheduled to leave half an hour from now. Mike H’s rides intimidate me. He goes vertical, relentlessly, over and over again. Mike B (why read a blog if you’re not in it?) and I convince her to come along with us. “My ride’s easier,” I tell her. It probably will be. Marilyn has gone from zero to B in three months. She hung with us on our trip to Stanton two weeks ago, and went with us to New Egypt two days later. She’s got guts to ride with the B’s in her first season. It took me a couple of years to muster the courage to ride alongside all those long legs.

Once Mike M arrives and is ready, I corral everyone and give them the low-down: There will be three big climbs, two of which we can skip if we don’t feel like doing them. If we do everything, it’ll be 60 miles, and 55 if we don’t. The third big climb will be unavoidable. We’ll be stopping to look at the reservoirs up close and from far away. By the time we leave it’s close to 9:00 a.m.

The scent of honeysuckle hangs thick in the air as we follow the river north towards Milford.

The haze is beginning to clear as we get into Milford and start up out of the river valley. Except the bridge is out on Javes Road. We’ll have to go around. Way around. We follow the detour signs, which take us out and up gently. I recognize a lone supermarket on the empty county road. John Danek took us here on last year’s windmill ride, back when my vision was still a little blurry from the first corneal incident. Knowing I’ve been here before relaxes me a bit.

The detour sends us east and we’re back where I wanted to be. This time we can see the scenery. Last year we could barely see each other.

We pass the Alexandria airport (did we even see the entrance last time?):





The little hills start. Marilyn’s gears are making a racket. Something in her front shifter is very wrong. She’s working way too hard already and she’s falling behind. I tell the guys to slow down a little so she can catch up. But by the time we get to the top of Michelin Corner Road, still south of the real hills, we know it’s time for her to turn around. I give her the first page of my map so she can go back the way we’re going to go back later. “I’ve memorized the route,” I tell her, and show her how to get home. We exchange phone numbers just in case.

Marilyn turns left and we go north and then east, towards Spruce Run Reservoir. Out of the haze the hills loom, gray-green mounds in the distance.

At the reservoir entrance the Mikes race to the guard house, the winner paying all of our $2 entrance fees. Mike B (what’s a blog without Mike B?) wins. By the time the rest of us catch up and learn what’s going on, the deal is done.

We go to the same lookout spot as last year, hoping for more than a view into fog. This time we can see farther out to the hazy shoreline across the water. A man is fishing off the edge, hoping for trout.

Here’s what we saw last year (fantastic photos by Tom, of course):




And this year (cell phone, of course):




Last year Tom captured a spider web on the wooden railings



so I look for one today. I find a tattered specimen, but my camera’s not good enough, and there’s not enough moisture left in the air. If you look closely you can see some webby stuff at the bottom center:



We walk back to our bikes. A few people are munching, so I pop a couple of Shot Bloks. I know what’s coming next, and it’s starting to frighten me.

Mike B (star of the show, of course) has grass in his derailleur. At the intersection of Route 31 he pulls over to pull it out. “Mechanical!” Mike M calls out. “Or is it really mechanical?” he adds. “It’s botanical,” I reply.

We cross 31 and turn onto Buffalo Hollow Road for the first of two hills. We pass a woman walking down the hill. Mike M rides up to me as the road flattens. “Did you see the look of Schadenfreude on that woman’s face?”

“Oh, great. Now I’ll have to spell ‘Schadenfreude,” I reply, adding, “I almost asked her what we’re in for but she didn’t look like a biker.” We’re at the top of the hill before the road drops and ascends again.

I have a picture of this from last year.



It’s in a slide show rotation on my work computer desktop. Now I’m at the exact spot where I took the picture and I feel as if I’ve climbed into the frame. Weird. We zip down the hill and start climbing again. I turn us onto Observatory Road. We’re now in Voorhees State Park, where we’d hiked in March.

Cheryl, Mike B (always Mike B) and I were here in March on a hike. We’d walked part of this road. I’d told Cheryl we were coming back here by bike this summer, and told her to look behind her at the steepness. “We can do this,” she’d said. Well, now we’re doing it, like it or not.

I’m glad we’re in the shade; the air is thick and hot now. The road twists and climbs, giving us only brief rests. I keep an eye on Cheryl in front of me so I can tell what’s coming. Sometimes she stands; that’s when I know trouble is near. When she sits down again I know I’ll be getting a rest soon. I’m alarmed at how slowly her legs are turning. This could spell doom for me; I can’t spin the way she can. This hill is steep. Even with my special gearing I have to stand. I wonder what the guys behind me are thinking when they see me get up. I think they might just want to kill me, if I don’t die right here first.

Then I see daylight through the trees and Cheryl stopped ahead of me. To her right is the observatory with a car parked at the entrance gate. Cheryl is on the left side of the road talking to the driver who is standing in the middle.

I pull up. Cheryl introduces me to an observatory volunteer. “I can give you a tour,” he offers. “I dunno. We should keep going.” I’m thinking of the heat and the time. Then the guys come up. “Do you guys want a tour of the observatory?” We decide to do it.



The place was built in 1974 by volunteers and has been volunteer-run ever since. Our tour guide is Ray. I ask him about light pollution up here. He says it’s bad and getting worse. Who knew the little town of High Bridge below us would be that bad? Maybe it’s everything around here – Flemington maybe, or even Newark, or just the east coast in general. We enter a lecture room. It’s cool and dark in here. The air feels good as we drip sweat.

He motions us towards a stairway leading to the telescope. Great. Stairs after a 340-foot climb. Along the way there’s a satellite photograph of the US at night. The entire eastern seaboard is flooded with light. No wonder these guys can’t see anything.

Ray opens the door to the telescope room. We’re facing a massive device that could be a stunt double for a James Bond film doomsday machine. We start firing questions at Ray faster than he can answer them. He tells us how the roof opens, how light travels down a tube (looks like the gun on a tank) towards a series of mirrors and finally to an eyepiece.

The scope is programmed to rotate at the same speed as the Earth to keep objects in focus. A full moon in the viewer is blinding. As the rest of us move towards the door to leave, Mike M is still asking questions. “Does this have a camera?”

Ray says, “If you become a member and pay for one.”

Someone asks how often he uses the scope himself. He looks down, sheepishly, and says, “I haven’t been on for about five years. Once you’ve seen everything…” We head down the stairs.

My phone rings. “Hello, Slug Number One! This is the Almost Slug.”

It’s Marilyn, back in Frenchtown. Before I even ask her if she’s okay I’m going on about the telescope tour. “I got a little lost on the way back,” she says. “There was an old-timey parade.” She got in about twenty miles, which was just fine with her. I tell her to take her bike back to the shop right away, and that the hill we just climbed would have made her gears explode. It’s hyperbole, of course, but I hope she knows what I mean. I’m not sure I do even as I say it.

Ray stands beside me as I get back on the bike. “Be careful,” he says, and “Drink a lot of water. Be safe.” He says this over and over again as I say “Goodbye” and “Thanks” and “I will.”

We begin our descent, stopping half a mile down the road at a scenic overlook. We’d been here in the winter, too, and could see Round Valley in the distance. Today, well, so much for the view. We see trees and haze beyond.



It’s a good thing we got that tour, I tell the crew, or we would have climbed this hill for nothing. Ray passes us as we get to the end of the road and turn right towards High Bridge. The Hill Top Deli awaits.

Diet root beers, PB&J, orange juice, water, five of us crowded around a round picnic table outside. I get up to reach for my maps and Cheryl notices the wet mark my butt leaves on the bench. “It’s hot! I’m sweaty! I be you’ll leave one too.” She stands up. The bench is dry. “Wow.” How does she do that? I’m dripping the same way the guys are.

I show the crew where we’re going next. We’re not going to do the middle climb. This last one took too much out of us and we still have more than 30 miles to go.

We descend into High Bridge, where, just like last year, I get turned around and wind up in a dead end at the train station. I can see where we need to be so I point us downhill and get lucky. I can feel the heat baking us now as we ride through a residential neighborhood and climb a few rollers. As we round a shady corner things aren’t looking familiar.

I would have remembered the Solitude House from last year, and suddenly I know where we are. We’re at one end of Lake Solitude. The only reason I know this is because someone from around here asked the Sierra Club, via me, about our position on the dam removal on this lake. I had to go to my wall map to figure out where this was, and defer to others in the Chapter to get the answer (remove the dam). At the time I’d seen how close it was to the double reservoir route, but until now I’d forgotten.

“Stop!” I call out as I check the map. Mike B (search for) looks over my shoulder. If we continue this way we’ll be climbing back up the hill we’d just left and be faced with ascending part or all of Cokesbury Mountain. “I don’t want to do that,” I tell him.

“Turn around! Turn around!” Well, now I’ve seen Lake Solitude anyway. We should come back this way sometime. Pretty road. We find the turn I’d missed and we’re on our way to Round Valley.

We’re on Reformatory Road, passing a huge complex that must have been, or must be, a reformatory for men. Cheryl asks if there’s one for women here so she can check herself in. Mike M asks, “Do you think it would help?” She suggests checking herself into the men’s asylum. Maybe she’d find a date, she says. “Inmate dating!” I call out, picturing a speed-dating scene with women and men separated by Plexiglas.

We get to Round Valley Reservoir via the access road off of Route 22, which seems a pretty gentle way to get up there. We must have been pretty high up to begin with because getting to the reservoir is work from all other angles. I signal to turn into the boat launch area and we watch people fishing. Somebody catches something big which Joe identifies, but I can’t see it from where I’m standing.




It’s hot. We don’t stay long.

Coming up is the Best Downhill Ever, the southbound descent from the top of the reservoir. The road is smooth, wide, and winding, with the reservoir on the left and farmland on the right. Mike B (find next) lets out a whoop as we swoop (that one’s for you, Dale).

At the bottom of the hill we turn west onto Payne, newly-paved in the blackest of asphalt. The heat engulfs us. I’m baking here. Across 31 we get some shade on Lilac and Kickeniuk, but we’re now on unfamiliar turf.

A small bridge crosses the Raritan River. I have to stop for a picture, now feeling obligated to document every Raritan crossing I make. The water is brown from Wednesday’s downpour.




I warn everyone that we’re about to climb again. It’s unavoidable. We have to get from the Raritan watershed to the Delaware watershed, and there’s a monster ridge in between. “I don’t know this road,” I tell the crew, “so I don’t know what’s coming.” It’s another 350 feet, but this one is longer. That should make it easier.

This one doesn’t feel as bad. As we pull away from the river and two farms along the bank we ride under the cover of trees. The road turns and all I see is Cheryl ahead of me. After a while things level out and I figure we’re at the top. To my right is the perfect view.



As I put my phone away I see the guys approaching. Cheryl is out of sight around the corner. But around the corner isn’t the end; it’s more hill. Damn. I shift all the way down and plod along. I don’t have much left, but once we’re up on the ridge it should be easy.

At the top Cheryl says, “I don’t think I can do any more hills.” Not do hills? She must be tired. We wait in the shade. As the guys arrive I tell them that we should be finished climbing.

I’m wrong, of course, because the minute we turn left onto Sidney Road there’s a hill there to mock us. And when we turn right onto West Sidney the road isn’t flat either. It’s not long before we’re facing an asphalt wall. Down go the gears. I’m not even trying now, just spinning quickly enough and slowly enough to keep moving.

Cheryl is a hundred yards or so ahead of me when I hear her. “Fucking HILL!” I smile, but I’m worried. It’s too soon for anyone to come apart. At the top she is leaning over her handlebars. “I can’t do one more hill,” she says. The guys are quiet when they get up to us.

Now we’re on Quakertown Road and going downhill into Pittstown. We pass the befuddling “Do not enter -- this is not an exit” sign just before our rest stop. I’m dizzy as I dismount.

This time we sit inside. I’m hungry but I don’t know what to eat. This place doesn’t to PB&J (“We’re Italian,” they’d explained to me last year.) so I unwrap my energy bar, which is nuts glommed together with something sweet and sticky. It tastes like ass but I eat it anyway. That and a salt tablet, just in case. Nobody else wants a tablet. None of us wants to get up or go back outside, but we have ten miles to go.

Cheryl asks Mike B (is he in this one?) if he’s read my blog recently. “Yes,” he says.

Cheryl and I both retort, “No you haven’t.”

“We’d know if you read it. It’s obvious.”

“What did I miss?”

“You’ll have to read it. You’ll see.”

“I only read it to look for my name,” he explains. “I use the ‘search’ tool with ‘Mike B’ and go through it that way.”

“Because it’s all about you,” I add.

“It’s all about me,” he replies. Oh, it’s on now. I know what I’m going to do this time.

Slowly we stand up.

“When we get to Frenchtown I’m buying,” I announce. “There’s sorbet at the café.”

Back at our bikes I pull out the maps. “Huh. I didn’t notice that ‘160’ on Sidney.” That was the wall. “We have one more 140-foot climb around the corner, and after that I can’t tell you because Marilyn has my map. But we will have a long downhill at the end, that much I know.”

After the 140 feet, though, we still seem to be going up. This has to end sometime. Even on the flats I seem to be dragging. We have a headwind, not strong but hot, enough to blow the sweat away. I look ahead for any sign of shade, or of Rick Road where our long descent will begin.

It seems like forever before we get there. Cheryl announces that she’s no longer having fun, then apologizes. I don’t feel bad or good, just exhausted, automated, the legs going ‘round and ‘round, the brain on neutral. As Matt says, “You still gotta pedal.” I know this so well now that I no longer have to think it.

We finally get our payoff. Rick Road drops and drops for miles. The wind and the shade cool us off. This downhill has to be better than Round Valley, if not for the swooping (of which there isn’t much) then for the length. But I’m not sure I want to do the work to get back up here. Three miles of coasting puts us in a better mood until the end, where a numbskull in an SUV nearly creams Mike B (does he get it yet?) as she bolts out of her driveway.

Three more turns and we’re home. The first is Stamets, which hands us a little hill just to shake us out of our relaxation. Then its more dive-bombing down. Out of nowhere I get one of my all-time favorite songs in my head, one that only pops in when I’m feeling carefree and happy, one I haven’t even made a point to listen to in years: Supertramp's "Dreamer."

Dreamer, you know you are a dreamer
Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
I said dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer
Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
I said "Far out, - What a day, a year, a laugh it is!"
You know, - Well you know you had it comin' to you,
Now there's not a lot I can do

Dreamer, you stupid little dreamer;
So now you put your head in your hands, oh no!
I said "Far out, - What a day, a year, a laugh it is!"
You know, - Well you know you had it comin' to you,
Now there's not a lot I can do.

Well work it out someday

If I could see something
You can see anything you want boy
If I could be someone-
You can be anyone, celebrate boy.
If I could do something-
Well you can do something,
If I could do anything-
Well can you do something out of this world?

Take a dream on a Sunday
Take a life, take a holiday
Take a lie, take a dreamer
dream, dream, dream, dream, dream along...

Dreamer, you know you are a dreamer
Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
I said dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer
Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
OH NO!


But the bliss stops at an intersection I wasn’t expecting. I don’t know which is the new road and which is the one we’re supposed to be on. The left turn I’m looking for isn’t this one, which is a triangular intersection that just confuses me. I stop and start to reach for my maps when I remember that Marilyn has this one. I’m supposed to have memorized this part, but I don’t remember any Gallmeir Road popping up. Through my exhausted haze I can feel a bit of panic, but we must be close to the river at this point.

I look around. To the left the road descends. “Are you sure?” Cheryl asks. “Yep,” I say, but I don’t know why I’m so sure, other than the fact that the road goes down.

But not for long. We’re climbing again. Cheryl is antsy now. There are lots of cars coming our way. I take this as a good sign. It means we must be near something big, like the river or at least an intersection. After the road takes a sharp turn we wind up at a big intersection. I have no idea where we are. My notion is to turn left, based on nothing at all. I try to flag down a few cars. Eventually a woman in an SUV stops as I call out, “We need directions!”

“Which way is the river?” I ask.

She points the opposite way from where I would have gone. “That way. That’s 513,” she says. “It’ll take you right into Frenchtown.”

“How far?” I dread the answer.

“Two or three miles. It’ll take you right in.” Whew.

“What’s the name of this road?”

“This is Gallmeir,” she says.

Right. Big oops there. If not for this woman we’d be heading back up the ridge and calling an ambulance to take us home.

“Thank you so much!”

I call out to the group to turn onto 513. “Three miles to Frenchtown!”

The road looks familiar. This must be the same route we took back last year. The road that Tom said would be “all downhill from here” but wasn’t. A series of low rollers confirms it. A mile marker reads “mile 2” and I know we’re headed in the right direction. One more mile and there will be a steep drop into town. Mike M bolts ahead. He must remember this road too. I haven’t been this pooped since the Chocolate Bunny in March.

I wait until we’re all in the parking lot before I say, “You’re strong people, tough people, and good eggs all around.” Despite my nearly desiccating every one of them, they’re thanking me for a good ride. We’re all crazy.

I’m so trashed I can’t even find the energy to take my shoes off. I call home to let Jack know we’re going to be a while. It’s already 3:30, a solid hour later than I’d thought we’d be back. I stagger to my backpack and reach for my towel and change of clothes. I can barely change my socks.

“I feel as if I’ve done a century,” I tell Mike B (following the plot at all?). I duck behind the car door to change, too exhausted to walk to the bathroom at the café. I feel better once I’m out of my sweaty clothes, but it’s still in the mid-90’s and I can’t seem to stop sweating. I take some money and my towel with me into the café.

Joe is already there, having waited for us to change and put our bikes in the car. He’s halfway through a bowl of sorbet. I ask him, “Did you pay yet?”

“No.” He gestures towards the counter. “I told her you’re paying.”

So I do, for four raspberry sorbets and two cookies (for Jack). “This is the best thing I’ve tasted all day.”

They agree.

*****

Epilogue:

From now on I’m carrying two sets of maps, but, as it turns out, the wrong turn didn’t cost us any miles, just shade, altitude, and patience.

It also turns out that our ascents after Pittstown to Rick Road put us higher than we had been all day, including at the top of the observatory hill.



And I learned today that when we turned onto Sidney Road we were at the headwaters of Sidney Brook, which is so clean that it has the maximum protection the state allows, keeping development 300 feet away in either direction. The stream supports trout, as does Spruce Run Reservoir, which means that we were riding in some relatively clean, unpolluted watersheds.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Foreign Territory




1 June 2008

The phone goes at 6.14 a.m. Must be Cheryl. She seems to know to ring me just before my alarm is set to go off. I got in from New York City late last night and didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight. She was up late too, it turns out, and she’s half-asleep asking me if Tom’s ride is still on. The roads are wet from last night’s thunderstorms, but the sun is out. As far as I know the ride is on, so we’ll see each other in the park at 7.30. She rings off seconds before the alarm starts beeping. I shut it off and roll out of bed.

Bloody hell, I’m going to need coffee if I’m going to ride sixty flat miles in the wind today. Good show that we’re starting down in Salem County, over an hour away. If I don’t have to drive I can have a kip, or at least down some caffeine before we get started.

I’m just finishing breakfast when Mike B. rings. He wants to know if I want a ride to the park, and if Cheryl wants to ride with us. I tell him I’ll be ready in ten minutes’ time and pour coffee into my travel mug. I grab the pack of hex wrenches and a tape measure and fetch the new saddle that hurts my bum. Cheryl has been complaining about her saddle lately, so I promised I’d try to put my reject on her bike for her after the ride.

Tom is waiting for us at the car park. He says Cheryl is running late and is on her way. Glenn pulls in, and then Cheryl five minutes later. We work it out that Cheryl is going with us and Glenn with Tom, so we put the bikes in the boots and head off.

Instead of sleeping, Cheryl and I share my coffee. As it’s only half and half to begin with, I’m not really feeling much other than not quite as knackered as when I got out of bed. We chat about all sorts of stuff on the way down, including the possibility of my looking for work closer to home, at BMS. Cheryl is warning me about layoffs, telling me that their stock isn’t doing well and that they’re going to lay off scientists sooner or later. Then there’s Terry’s having been sacked over at Lexicon last week: 20 percent of the work force cut in one go.

Howard is already there when we arrive. ‘You silly man’, I tell him. ‘You could’ve carpooled with us.’ He says he was running late. With his speed and his GPS I wonder how many miles it will be before he does a runner on us.

Tom says he might complain about the wind later. I tell him ‘Cheryl and I will be the ones whingeing.’ She says she wants coffee.

Tom tells us that where we are now, Fort Mott, on the Delaware Bay in Salem County, is technically in Delaware. When the state lines were drawn, he explains, Delaware’s territory was meant to extend a mile or so from its shores. With the western New Jersey coast being so close to the Delaware shore, we are now within the bollixed Delaware boundary. So even though we’re in New Jersey, we’re in Delaware. There aren’t any houses here, though, just the state park, so there’s no getting away from property taxes by living in Delaware, New Jersey.

This, then, the park, the river, and the far shore, is Delaware:



As soon as we hit the road, Glenn continues our discussion about the differences between being a scientist in academia and in the corporate pharmaceutical world. We started in on this Saturday last and continued it two nights ago. I promised him I’d send him my vita so he could help me adjust it for the corporate suits. For a week now my head has been spinning, thinking of the pros and cons of Penn and the big unknown that doubling my salary and one-sixthing my commuting time would bring me. It would all be theoretical if there weren’t a position open at BMS right now that he thinks I might be able to fill, and if I didn’t feel so much like a second-class citizen in the lab I’m in now. If I’m going to get stick, I might as well be paid more for it.

We stop for pictures at an inlet. I have my mobile for photos. Glenn and Tom have proper digital cameras.

This is my picture:



And this is Tom's shot of the same thing:



I’m giving Glenn and anyone else within earshot tidal wetland botany lessons. I’ve already taught him Phragmites communis, the common reed. Now we’re looking at great egrets, which I can’t tell from cattle egrets at this distance. But Glenn knows. They alight in a tree, which looks silly because the birds are so big.

We move on to catch up with the rest of the lot, who are stopped ahead. Howard has a flat tyre. I get some more pictures and point out Spartina alterniflora and Nuphar luteum. It’s been yonks since I’ve learned these names and I can’t remember what they’re called in English.






Glenn's got some good ones:






Tom spots a snake on the guardrail. It has clearly run up the curtain and joined the choir invisible, but not so long ago that we can’t play with it. I drape it over Kermit and Tom snaps a picture.



Kermit's got a good breakfast.

Further on we pass some Saggitaria by the water’s edge. I’m teaching Cheryl the difference between a marsh and a swamp. So far we've just seen marshes.

We pass loads of farms, some with horses, some with sheep, and some gone fallow for the season.

Every other road is called Somebody's Neck Road.

There must not be much to do in the winter here. One chap has polka-dotted his garden:







(The top one is mine, the second Tom's, and the final three Glenn's.)

We encounter a herd of cows with calves. When Glenn and I stop for a picture, the calves scamper off to their mothers and eye us from a safe distance. A few of them moo. (Glenn's picture is the second one.)





A bit further on Glenn and Tom stop to look at a turtle in the road:




A sign for deer skinning is worth saving:



A closed shop has its porch crowded with wood cut-outs and a moose round the side:



We stop for a water break although our real food break will be ten miles on.

Inside the little shop Cheryl notices Little Debbie oatmeal pies on the shelf. "Little Debbie, Little Debbie," we say in unison, and I add, "I'm comin' on home baby." We've been doing this for years, ever since I gave her a cassette for Spin class with Southern Culture on the Skids' "Camel Walk" on it:

Baby
Could you eat that there snack cracker
In your special outfit for me
Please?

Yo ye pharaohs
Let us walk
Through this very desert
Searching for truth and
Some pointy boots and
Maybe some snack crackers

Baby you make me wanna walk
Like a camel
Ooo-eee!
Walk!

Who's in charge here?
Where's my Captain's Wafers?
Don't go around hungry now
The way you eat that oatmeal pie
Makes me just wanna die

Baby you make me wanna walk
Like a camel

Oooo-eee!
Walk!

Say you don't think there's uh any way
I could get that quarter
from underneath your uh pointy boot do you?
All I want is one more oatmeal pie


Little Debbie, Little Debbie
I'm a comin' on home baby
'Cause you
Make me wanna walk
Like a camel



Cheryl buys coffee and entices me to share. It’s crap coffee compared to my premium beans but I finish it anyway. It’s practically water. Three of us get what look to be muffins but are meant to be shortcakes. I ask Tom if there’s a loo, but there isn’t, so I can’t wash the snake off my hands. I save my shortcake for the next stop.

Glenn asks why Jack never learned to drive, so I explain that he’d moved to England with his family, gone to school there, then come back to Philly for university where he met me. We were too skint to afford insurance for two people anyway, let alone a second motor, so we got by with just the one car and me driving us everywhere. Soon it became a bit of a challenge to see how long he could go without having to drive. Twenty-three years on and he has yet to sit behind the wheel.

We hit the road again, and I tell Glenn my sordid history of working for emotionally imbalanced scientists, including one who wound up in hospital. We agree that stable people are rare in the sciences. He also likes his job and isn’t stressed, which makes him an odd one as well. Maybe there are more like him in the corporate world. I certainly don’t see too many where I work.

Tom takes us up the only hill on the ride and down the other side. We turn on Hell Neck Road:




Something is clicking in my crank. I ride up to Tom and ask about his mechanical skills. We run through the possibilities, including a bad bottom bracket. ‘That’ll be this ride scuppered’, I mutter.

I wash the snake and sweat off my hands at the rest stop. Cheryl and I decide on Cokes and we share my shortcake. Tom checks all the screws on the chain ring and I try to shake the crank. Nothing budges anywhere, so we figure there’s no need to worry.

When we push off again the headwind is so strong and loud I can’t hear the clicking anyway.

We get a good view of the Salem nuclear power plant in the distance. Stick your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye.



I have to stop for a photo of this one:



‘Frog Ocean Road?’ Someone needs a biology lesson.

Then again, biology does some odd things, like grow trees from old pilings in the middle of an inlet:




We’re heading straight into the wind now, and Howard is pulling ahead now that he knows we’re close to home. The lot of us are quiet now just trying to keep the pace. Soon a tower appears ahead of us. ‘That’s the lighthouse’, Tom tells me. ‘It’s a range lighthouse. There’s one on each side of the river. Where the beams meet is the middle of the river.’

When we get up to it, we’re looking at the ugliest lighthouse ever, a towering grey todger wearing a steel mesh condom. Tom and I stop for pictures. Howard biffs off with Cheryl and Mike in tow.

‘I want to get a picture of the bay hales’, I tell Tom. ‘Hay bales. Hay bales.’ We’d seen them on the way out but the lighting was all wrong. Now it’s better:



We finish the ride with fifty-eight miles. I dig into my pack for my change of clothes. If I’m going to be an hour in the car before I get home, I’m going to put on clean knickers. But I still feel grotty even after I wash and change.

Once back in Mike’s car, the three of us decide to skip finding a diner and just go home. After a bit I notice that Cheryl has gone quiet. I look back and she’s having a kip. Mike and I prattle on. Cheryl wakes up in time to get us off the highway and back to the park, where Mike and I change her saddle. It’s not until we’re finished that I figure out what’s been causing her so much trouble for the past month: when she had her bike cleaned, whoever worked on it put her seat post back in crooked. She decides to keep the new saddle anyway and see what happens. So much for my career as a bike mechanic. I should keep my day job.

*****

So, Ben, how did I do, then? Was it brilliant or crap?