Rolling on the River

26 April

Leaving aside for the moment that it hit 93 degrees in Philly, today was good for an early start along the Delaware from Stockton to Holland Township and back with the Joes, Hilda, Frank, and a fast guy named Jack.

I remembered my camera.

Here's the view from the top of Riegelsville-New Milford Road as we made our way north to Holland Township:



Big Joe gives me the Love Sign. That's how we know he's in a good mood:



Those hills are in Pennsylvania:



Phillip Road goes east but we continued north:



Hilda wanted to see the Delaware River before we turned around. Here it is:





This is very near Church Road, which goes uphill towards the windmill. Let the record show that Hilda did say, "Let's go see it," and let the record show that it was Jack and Little Joe who shook their heads. We already had thirty miles without a stop, the windmill was five miles uphill from us, and Big Joe was waiting for us a few miles back the way we came. So we didn't see the windmill. But Hilda was ready to climb up there. She really was.

Hilda is now a Hill Slug.

I let the gang get ahead of me on our way back down Riegelsville-New Milford Road so that I could take some pictures. The Joes don't like to stop, but a waterfall is a waterfall, no matter how puny.



The rock face, the road, the guardrail, the railroad tracks, and the Delaware River:





Here's Hilda in New Milford.



This is the Ship Inn, where we once had lunch after climbing up to the windmill. We don't remember the food, but we do remember that John and Hilda's cell phones were the only ones with a signal out here.



As we passed through Frenchtown I saw Marilyn going into a store with her bike. I didn't have time to wonder why she was taking her bike into a store, nor to do more than call her name and wave as we flew by.

Fast Jack pulled us way too fast down Route 29 most of the way home, until we were all too trashed to keep up the pace. When Hilda got a flat we were all relieved, except Big Joe, who buzzed past us without even slowing down. He had a lot of work to do and needed to get home.

We hung out in the Prallsville Mill parking lot for a while. As I was driving out I saw Marilyn at her car with another cyclist, a stranger. I got out to say hello.

"Look what happened!" she said.




Sheesh. I thought only mountain bikers did that crazy shit to their drivetrains. Poor Marilyn. She's had more bad luck with her bike in two years than most of us have in ten. But she wanted a picture:




How did she get back to the parking lot with her bike in that condition? Well, after having some sort of trouble on Bob P's ride, Bob told her to ride down Route 12 into Frenchtown. I'd seen her going into a bike shop.

The mechanics did something, but, if I remember this correctly, the deraileur didn't snap until she started her trek down Route 29 alone. That's when the guardian angel biker happened along, saw her, and rode next to her with his hand on her back, pushing her as she coasted helplessly for something like 12 miles back to Stockton.

Well, that's one way to meet a guy...