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.”