Watersheds

23 August

*****
A propos to nothing, here's a picture I took last week on the way to Belmar as we were stopped for the passing of a commuter train. Real old-timey.


*****
There's so much rain the back yard is flooded.

Phyllis is calling to say she's stuck in traffic. Trees are down, she reports, and something was on fire. I give her back road directions, grab the compost bag, pull off my socks, put on my 25-year-old Docksides, and wade ankle-high to the compost pile. Water is pouring out of the rain barrel's overflow valve so quickly that I can wash my hands under it.

Marilyn arrives, looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Now, I've coached her on how to be a Hill Slug, but I didn't expect her to copy my doofus crash too. I think she outdid me on this one. I only got my leg; she got her face, shoulder, both knees, and her left hip. But, as I did, she got back on her bike and finished her ride.

I'm still shaking water out of my hair when Cheryl, Mike, and Theresa walk in. Princeton Pike at Franklin Corner is under water. Hilda had to go around, too. Bakers Basin is flooded near Route 1. Phyllis gets in before Gordon and Terry, who, like Hilda, had to worm their way around Hamilton to higher ground. In the end, Marilyn, who lives farthest away, had the easiest time getting here. What we'll do to avoid just sitting around on a Saturday night.

The rain stops and the last guests leave around 11:30. The last time I look at the clock I'm at the computer checking tomorrow's weather. The forecast at midnight is still ambiguous. I don't look at the clock when I get into bed. I have to be up at 6:45 to check the weather if I'm going to cancel the ride.

It's too dark when the alarm clock goes off. I stagger out of bed to the windows at the front of the house. There's still water on the screens but the road is starting to dry out. Three online weather sites give me three different predictions. I'm going with the street: the ride is on.

Twice on the way to Lambertville I need the wipers. Ahead the sky is clearing. I half expect to be the only one there: Smolenyak has already called to tell me he met rain in Bound Brook and turned around.

The drizzle stops before I reach the parking lot on Cherry Street. Frank and Phyllis are already there. Mighty Mike pulls in.

I give them the run-down: We'll climb out of here, stay on the ridge for a while, coast into Clinton, probably get lost, climb out again, get a three-mile downhill, cross the Delaware to Upper Black Eddy, and climb out again on the Jersey Side. It should be sixty miles.

The air is thick and my inner thighs hurt. I'd expected to feel draggy, but why do my legs hurt? This is not good, not good at all. We bounce down Lower Creek Road. The water in the Wickecheeoke is raging to the Delaware.

Our first climb is Upper Creek, the "Twin Towers," as Michael Heffler calls it. "This one's a double-humper," I warn. I drag myself up. By the time I reach the top my legs don't hurt anymore. Huh. Too many flat rides lately perhaps? Whatever. Now I won't have to panic.

I just missed the turn from Featherbed onto Hammer. I'd have kept on going if Mike hadn't asked, "Did you see the name of that road?" So we turn around.

We're back in the land of weird road names, up on the same ridge as Goose Island, Rake, Joe Ent, Senator Stout, Hog Hollow, Bonetown, Whiskey, and Boar's Head. So Hammer doesn't seem very out of place. To bikers "hammer" is a verb meaning to switch into high gear and disappear. Up here who knows what it means?

We're near Locktown, which also mystifies me. The name would make sense down by the D&R Canal, but we're miles from it, far above it. Well, I suppose if you have hammers and rakes you might as well have locks. Then we pass over a creek. A sign by the bridge reads, "Lockatong Creek."

Lockatong. Locktown. Duuuuh. [Ah! Here we go. Nifty little church by the way. Carol Heffler performed in there with her jazz ensemble a couple of years ago.]

I'm not thinking much about the origin of the next road: Barbertown-Point Breeze. But I do point out Slacktown when we get there.

All this time we've been slowly going up, climbing out of the Delaware River watershed. When we turn onto West Sidney, home of the Fucking Hill, we'll be entering the watershed of the (say it with me now) Raritan River. At least this time we're descending the Fucking Hill. It's a pretty good downhill, if a little bumpy. But the road climbs in this direction too. Nefarious in both directions. Well done, West Sidney.

From here it really is all downhill, nearly five hundred feet. We're going so quickly I see the next turn zip past. It's not worth turning around; there are other ways to get into Clinton. So I stop and check the map. Instead of taking Landsdown we'll take Lower Landsdown. The two roads meet anyway and we'll have spared ourselves a hundred feet of up-and-down.

Smolnenyak told me to look for the cement pineapples near the railroad underpass. I point them out. "Yummers!" Phyllis says.

We start to see people walking dogs, riding cruiser bikes, and walking in packs in the street. We're almost in Clinton.

"Oyyyy! Oyyyy!" Phyllis calls out as we cross a double set of tracks. That's why I always stand up. "But buster!" she says.

To get to Main Street, which is one way, we have to cross the (take a guess!) South Branch of the Raritan River twice. The first is a boring concrete bridge on a boring state road across the street from a boring convenience store (good to know it's there though). The second is one of those steel bridges with a steel surface. I look down. Through the mesh I can see straight into the water. That's a little disconcerting.

Phyllis has been here before, so she leads us to a waterfront restaurant next to the bridge. Next to it, closer to us, is a coffee shop. Perfect. It's not much bigger than a closet inside but it has what we need: cookies, muffins, and house-roasted beans. I look at the bags. I didn't wear a coffee-hauling jersey today. With the maps taking up a third of the space there's no room for a pound of beans.

A sign on the wall announces that Citispot Coffee is open every day. The chatty fellow behind the counter looks at us and declares that we need our coffee iced. I ask what beans he's brewing. "House blend," he says, but he won't give away what's in the mix. "Not Sumatran. Not Ethiopian. Not Guatemalan. Better than Starbucks."

He hands it over. It's not the best dark brew I've tasted, but it's good enough. Very strong. He gives Frank his cup. "You'll want milk in it," I warn him. I drink mine black.

Mike has a table for us near the bridge. A white terrier wanders by, ignoring us the way any self-respecting cat would. Frank comes out with his coffee nearly white with milk. Phyllis looks at his and at mine, and she laughs. She tries his first. I make her try mine. "Whoah!" she laughs. "How do you drink that stuff?" Practice.

Mike tells us that the old men in Italy drink grappa with their espresso in the morning.



Phyllis and Frank talk outside of Citispot:

We've loitered long enough. We pedal down Main Street, a twee block that might make for a pleasant couple of hours on foot someday after a hike at Round Valley. But once we're off Main Street we're back in the typical suburban yuck that is Anywhere, New Jersey.

We turn on Union Street, onto a surprise hill. I fumble with my cue sheet and nearly fall over, catching myself by veering out into the left lane, coming a bit too close to a pickup truck that slowed when I teetered. There's my little bit of mountain bike experience paying for itself.

The terrain is rolling, slowly taking us uphill. At the top, on both sides, we can see the ridges of the Highlands fading into the haze. "We're definitely coming back here in the fall," I announce. The coffee takes hold.

We cross over Route 78 and ride on a frontage road shielded from the highway by tall bushes. Every once in a while we can see a thin ribbon of cars moving over the hills. Eventually the road turns away from the highway and we're climbing out of the Raritan watershed.

The road is called Baptist Church. I stop at the Bethlehem Baptist Church, or what's left of it, for some pictures:



We've got 380 feet of climbing ahead of us, spread over a couple of miles. For a while we're under a thick canopy of trees. Then we're in open fields. It's hot. This here is a bit of work. Phyllis drops her chain but tells us to keep going. When the road starts to level off I stop to make sure she's okay. I turn around and here's the view:


We're not quite finished with this road, nor the climb, but at least the trees are back.

Then I see a road sign that reads, "Scotch Willie." We've got to be back on the ridge. The names are getting weird again.

Here's the payoff: Rick Road. Almost three miles of downhill. If you crouch at the right time you can do the whole thing without pedaling. Two thirds of the way down I remember that I forgot to crouch. I've run out of steam. Ahead of me Mike is trying valiantly not to pedal but he doesn't make it either. At the bottom Frank wants to know what town we're in. I haven't got a clue. While he eats a banana I consult the maps. "Mount Pleasant."

Frank says, "After a downhill like that you know we're going to have to climb."

"Not really," I tell him. "We're heading to the river. It'll be mostly downhill." Mostly. There are a few hard rollers in our path.

We take Stamets Road all the way to the river. Through the haze we can see the hills of Pennsylvania. That's where we're headed.

In Milford we walk our bikes over the bridge. There's a sign that warns us not to jump. Frank looks at it and says, "You have to kill yourself to get a ticket around here."

At the Homestead General Store I have just enough money for an iced decaf, PB&J, and a bag of "Steady Eddy," the decaf version of their "Black Eddy Darkness" brew (not as strong as "Dead Man's Brew," which I already have at home). I don't need the maps anymore, so I can tuck them away and make room for the beans.

The store owner warns us not to sit outside today. The bees are out there. I ask her about the tortie kitten who was here a few months ago, the one who was too afraid to be petted. "She found a home. She just jumped onto someone's lap and that was it. She wouldn't come near me." She shrugs and smiles.

We sit around a small table. "We have a decision to make," I say. I'd planned to climb up Fairview and take 519 into Stockton, but if we feel like it we can skip the hills and rollers and just ride along the river back to Lambertville. "We can decide when we get there," I tell them.

At the Frenchtown bridge, as we dismount for the walk, I ask, "Well, what do you say? Fairview or fuck it?"

Frank says, "Fuck it!"

"Consider it fucked. Just 'cause it's there doesn't mean we have to climb it."

Frank says, "They don't call us Hill Slugs for nothin'."

The Delaware River from the Frenchtown bridge, looking south:


One thing Hill Slugs are good at is having enough energy to hammer down Route 29 after 45 miles of climbing. Mighty Mike takes the lead.

I'm a little confused when we pass a sign that tells us we have ten more miles to Lambertville. But when I think about it I realize that the river bends westward between Frenchtown and Stockton. Route 519, up in the hills, is more of a straight line.

Somewhere near Bulls Island I feel a few raindrops. Ahead of us is more than mist. We catch up with the shower and ride through it in less than a mile. But the storm is chasing us. By the time the power lines at Route 202 come into view we're pretty much soaked.

We turn onto Cherry Street, where the parking lot is. Mike stretches his arms out to meet the rain full-on. Phyllis and I do the same thing when we get off our bikes. We're all laughing.