It's All About the Names

7 September 2008

I'm waaaay behind on my blogging. I've been spending too much time reading political news, following meta-analyses of tracking polls, reading up on every lie told by McCain and Palin, freaking out over the prospect of another four years of idiots ruling this country, you know, the usual routine for a progressive during a presidential election.

Anyway.

Two Sundays ago I stole and modified the Joes' hilly Lambertville route and dragged a few people up towards Quakertown. The remnants of Hurricane Helen had drenched New Jersey the day before, leaving the air cool, dry, and cloudless. Perfect.

A handful of Slugs showed up: the Mikes, Cheryl, Chris, Marilyn, and Susan. The goal was to ride on as many roads with goofy names as possible.

Hammer. Whiskey Lane. Boarshead. Goose Island. Rake Factory. Joe Ent. Someday I should try to find out the history of the ridge above Frenchtown. These people, like the ones in Salem County, must not have had much to do on winter nights.

Marilyn and I had just nailed down the definition of schroon: a person who needlessly worries about being the trailing rider who fears pissing off the rest of the group by making them wait. I've since embellished the definition: To schroon is to lag behind so little that nobody but the schroon notices. The lag distance always appears farther to the schroon than to the rest of the group.

A schroon is the opposite of a pace-pusher. If you have a schroon and a pace-pusher on your ride the group will splinter.

As we zig-zagged our way along a flat stretch in the woods, Susan and I ranted against Sarah Palin. It'd been just a little over a week since McCain had picked her, the stories about her past just starting to surface. It would be another week before she'd be fully exposed as a serial liar, conniving politician, and brainless empty suit by the Mainstream Media. The bloggers had already figured it out.

Near the top of the ridge Mike B. got a flat, for which he was needlessly apologetic. While he and Chris worked on the tire I befriended a fluffy, overweight, black cat who strutted her stuff and let me pet her. She even briefly showed me her tummy but I know better than to try to rub a strange cat's belly on the first date.

We got to the top of the ridge at the end of Joe Ent Road. We were facing north, looking out onto the next ridge. Mike B. got excited. "Is that the observatory?" There might have been something white poking out but we were too far away. I figured we were looking at the Cokesbury ridge, but Chris thought we were facing the wrong way. "I'll check the map at the rest stop," I said, and pulled out my cell phone for a picture. I hit the button too soon the first time, but it came out kinda artsy:



That's Mike M. looking for a signal.

The mystery ridge is behind the trees. So much for lining up the shot:



On Pittstown Road, just before the deli, there's a building I've mentioned before, the one with the perplexing sign: "Do not enter. This is not an exit."



This time, instead of whizzing past, I went by slowly enough to look at the other side. There's a flight of concrete steps at the end. That would be a bumpy drive.

When I caught up with everyone somebody said, "Uh oh."

Crap. The deli was closed. "I coulda sworn it was open on Sundays before."

"Summer's over."

I told everyone to eat whatever they brought with them because we had another fifteen miles to go before pulling into Milford. We figured we'd have enough water among us to last another fifteen miles. So we sat on the picnic benches, ate our sandwiches, and peed behind the bushes.

I pulled out the map. "Yep. That was Cokesbury. Do you guys want a three-mile downhill?"

"Yeah!"

We had to go a little out of our way to do it, and I made a wrong turn to boot. But at least the wrong turn had a good view of another set of hills. I got us back on track and to the intersection of Senator Stout and Hog Hollow. How can you not get a picture of that?:



Those muscular arms belong to Cheryl and Marilyn.

Mike B. said we were "doing the Hog Hollow shuffle." I made up a song: "Looking for water/Looking for trouble/Making wrong turns/It's the Hog Hollow Shuffle." Not my best effort.

I took us up Mechlin Corner Road, the same road we took two times before in dense fog. This was the first time, then, that I really got to see the place. It was a long, slow, gradual ascent, enough to spread us out. Then there was more hill before the big descent on Rick Road.

But it was worth it:



At the bottom of the hill we were only halfway down the ridge. I took us down Stamets and didn't flub the turn this time. I found Kappus earlier than expected (Cheryl, I learned later, was cursing me out because she and Mike M. got ahead of the turn and had to double back).

I thought we'd end up in Milford but it was Frenchtown we landed in. We hung out at the cafe there, Chris complaining about the "horseshit sandwiches," which, to him, is anything more posh than a hot dog. The coffee was good, though. A Guatemalan, Sumatran, and Papua New Guinean blend. They must've known I was coming.

After that we had 22 miles of straight, flat road down Route 29 with a tailwind, the Delaware River visible through the trees every now and then.

I dared to ask Cheryl what she thought of Palin. Cheryl is one of only a handful of admitted Republicans I know. She said she didn't have enough information yet. I said I could send her some, and she said that would be good.

I've been bombarding her ever since.