Hill Slug Chronicles: Snow Bike! (Well, Sort Of)

10 January

The forecast is for six inches of snow coming in two doses. The Sierra Club meeting I was supposed to help chair in Chatham has been canceled because of it. Mike B got a new bike and the heavy snow isn't supposed to start until later today, so it's going to be the usual crowd in Mercer County Park today if the weather holds.

There's only a dusting on the ground right now. I'm late as usual. This time the hold-up is the new booties I have to wrestle over my shoes. Next time I'm going to have to give myself ten minutes for the shoes alone.

I oiled the chain and pumped up the tires last night. I take the front wheel, my backpack, and my Camelbak out to the car first, as I always do, then I come back for the bike. Something sounds wrong as I wheel it out the door.

The rear tire is flat. I must've left the valve unscrewed when I put the cap on last night, or else the higher air pressure pushed a thorn from the tire into the tube. Too late to do anything now; the guys'll wait for me anyway when I get to the park.

I'm driving behind John Powers, whom I haven't seen since the benefit ride after his heart attack. That he's riding with us today with half his heart gone is a testament to his fitness and determination.

As we pull into the parking lot, Chris calls out to me, "You never learn! Don't follow Powers!" He's referring to the time John fell on ice and I bailed out on the ice behind him so as not to run him over. John was fine; I smashed my wrist. I reply with, "I have a flat!"

Mike B is circling like a vulture on his new bike.

John Danek has a floor pump and we give the tire some air. It goes flat again in a few minutes. Chris pumps it up -- way up, 60 psi, far past the 45 I usually run on -- and tells me to ride around to get the Slime to coat the whole inside of the tire. It seems to be holding. By this time John Powers has fixed his own flat.

We're off to the west side first. It's snowing slightly but there's not much at all on the ground.

John D and Chris lead us to the BMX pit first. We have fun zinging back and forth. I pull out my new camera.

Off to one side is a ramp, built on a tree trunk, a drop-off, and another ramp to land on.

John D zips down a little slope:

Mike M follows. I'm forgetting to zoom in.

Mike B in motion:

In the foreground, a disused ramp. If you click on this picture you'll see that there are nails poking up on the top of the ramp. The drop-off, by the way, is into a pit. As look at it we're not sure which is worse, the nails or the gravity.

[Mike M has emailed us a link to a video of some kids doing "extreme mountain biking" in Mercer County Park. I'm not sure if we saw their ramp today, but there's no mistaking the park for ours. And no, Dad, we don't ride like that.]

We do ride like this, down the dam hill: After we all went down John D and Mike M went back up so I could take pictures of the descent. This is John and Mike climbing back up.

John going down:

Mike going down:

The dam (the hill is to the right):

The Assunpink Creek starts to the southeast, in Monmouth County. It is protected by the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area for part of the way, then flows northwest into the park. When the dam created Lake Mercer, it was for recreational purposes. The lake has become an up-and-coming place for regattas. After the dam the creek continues northwest through Hamilton and part of Lawrence Township, into Trenton, alongside the train tracks (flooding them five feet high after Hurricane Floyd), and into the Delaware River.

We move on through the woods and pop out at the Playground. John D goes straight for the see-saw. He pops over.

I ask, "Is it slippery?"

Chris is going over.

"No," John says. I line myself up. My heart is racing again. John P moves off to the left to watch.

I get a full head of steam and charge over, flying across. I hit the ground on the other side so hard that snot flies out of my nose. From my left I hear John P say, "Ya gotta slow down!"

It's time for pictures.

Mike B is up, and this time he makes it over.

"Got it!" I call out.

"Lemme see."

I show him.

"You cut my head off!"

John D is next:

I cut Mike M's head off, too:

"Can someone get my picture?" That means I have to go over again. Mike M takes the camera. Now I'm really nervous; he's going to get a picture of me falling off the see-saw. I slow it down this time.

When I land my legs are still shaking.

We cross the creek at Hughes Drive. This time I don't walk on the construction side of the bridge. Once was enough for that. I take the road. I'm the only one. After everyone is across Mike B says it wasn't worth the adrenaline. "That's what I figured out last time," I tell him.

The northwest side of the park is wet, so wet that the usual stream crossing is far too deep. Mike M finds a good spot upstream and we all splash through. Then there's more random crunching through leaves until we find the trail again. This section is a muddy mess.

Our cleats are packed with ice. Chris teaches us newbies how to whack the ice off by slamming our feet against the pedals to shake the ice loose. It works, and makes a nice racket too. Like a colony of slow, ground-based woodpeckers. Incidentally, our brakes are full of ice and barely work. My deraileur has frozen. I'm stuck in high gear as I climb a short hill to the top of the dam's northern side.

We stop to pump up my tire, which has gone down to about 35 psi. This is where I discover that my pump fits Schrader valves but my tires are prestas. Duh! I thought I'd checked that out when I got this last year. I'll get it adjusted when I get my new inner tube at Hart's today. John D uses his pump to fill my tire.

We crunch down off the other side of the dam, through mud and thin ice that breaks under our tires.

Not far into the woods Mike M's tire goes irreparably flat.

Unlike my tire, which took me 20 minutes to take off the last time I had a flat I tried to fix myself, Mike's comes off quickly. My tire needs three levers to remove it, hence the Slime to self-seal punctures, and the trips to Hart's from now on.

The Johns and I pick up thick sticks and commence whacking at our cleats. John D starts singing random syllables, "an African chant," he says, then stops. "It sounds more like Hebrew," he laughs. I suggest we at least get in rhythm with each other.

We get to the part of the trail that is striped with log pile after log pile. I'm getting better at not chickening out (if I can do the see-saw I damn well oughta be able to do these!), but three times I'm a wuss. I'm not giving myself enough room after the person in front of me, so I slow down too much and don't have as much momentum as I think I'll need. I'm still thinking it's speed, not handling, that will get me over. I'm wrong, of course.

On my way home from work the other day I saw a skateboarder on Drexel's campus. He was riding low cement ledges (notched to deter skateboarders, of course). I turned around to watch how he jumped onto a curb: knees bent, pushing down, then popping up. "That's what I need to do for logs," I told myself: push down before the pile, pull up on the wheel, and power over.

It works, when I remember to try it. I never land with much speed, though, so if there's another pile coming up close I lose my mojo.

Around a bend Mike B goes for a pile on a curve and slams into it, toppling over. Chris applauds him for trying. "It's about time you fell," I call out. But I'd never have gone for this; I'm not good enough to turn my bike sideways so quickly and get the wheel up in time. That he even tried to do it shows what talent and guts he has. I walk over the pile.

It's only a few minutes later when Mike spills again on a smaller log. I know how he must feel right now; I've been there: adrenaline from the last tumble, a little shaky, and tired. He picks himself up slowly. Again I walk over the log. Chris suggests we take the paved path back the rest of the way.

I'm out ahead, stopping and looking back every few minutes to make sure people are still behind me. I see Mike B and someone behind him. I don't see the Johns and Mike M dive back into the woods for the last stretch, where the big climb is. Instead I'm looking down at my tire. It feels hard but when I ride it's halfway flat. I'd better get back to the car before I ruin this rim.

The Johns and Mike M aren't far behind us. If you look closely at this picture you'll see all the mud splattered across Mike M's face and jersey. He was too close behind John P through a wet spot back in the woods.