Hill Slug Chronicles: Flat Fifty, Lazy Fruit, and a Piggy Update

24 July 2010

The theme for this weekend seems to be scuttled plans.

First, some of the usual century gang had planned to tack some miles onto Tom's Saturday ride through the Pinelands. Tom was even going to stock his car with cold drinks for us. But then we saw the forecast: the heat index would top 100 degrees by mid-day, and even at 8 a.m. the air would already be well above 80 degrees. Tom called anyone who planned to do a hundred in this heat "bat shit crazy," and announced that he would reduce the ride's miles from 70 to 50. So much for a century this weekend.

We all drove to Bordentown instead. We had a good, stiff, breeze out of the west to push us southeast. Still, we planned to stop twice for food and water. The first stop was at a Wawa, which is a required thing to do on a ride through Burlington County. Herb, who had gone off to the woods at the edge of the lot to pee, came back and said he couldn't because a handful of Pineys were in there, drinking beer at 10 a.m.

We were almost to the second stop when Big Joe's rear tire exploded. F-bombs filled the air as he tossed useless tire levers to the ground. I gave him mine, which are steel-enforced, and he got the tire off the rim. There was an inch-long gash in the tire, so we patched it with some of the duct tape I always carry (wrapped around an old id card holder, a lot of tape can be had for very little space).

We weren't much further along, but at least we were on a shady road, when his tire went "Pfffftttt!" again. More F-b0mbs, and someone wondered if he'd gone over his F-bomb quota. He pulled out a boot -- a four-inch long section of old tire -- and placed it between the gash and a new inner tube, courtesy of Little Joe.

Tom said, "You get one more time, Joe, then we're leaving you."

I said, "I thought our love for Joe was unconditional."

Jack H. looked at me, paused, and said, "Heat getting to you?"

The tube wouldn't hold air, but the leak wasn't coming from the tear in the tire. "Fuck it," Joe said, or something to that effect. We were only about four miles from the rest stop. "I'll fit it there."

We went to the Olde World Bakery in Smithville. The big draw here is the air-conditioned inside seating, the big, clean bathrooms, and the tables outside. The food? Meh.

Today, though, we all got a treat when, as we arrived, two young women were maneuvering a large, boxed sheet cake out the door. The top was propped open by a pair of protruding icing-laced cake breasts. Nice rack on that cake.

Herb, who had carpooled with Tom, was looking for Gatorade. He told Tom he'd wait for us at the Smithville Deli a few miles up the road.

The Joes got to work on the flat tire, borrowing my levers yet again, and going through another tube and a third CO2 cartridge. Joe wasn't cursing this time. "It's much easier in a chair in the shade," he said. The tube held.

When we reached the Smithville Deli (props to Michael T. for convincing the owner that it's okay to let bikers use the bathroom), neither Herb nor his bike was there. We figured he'd gone on. We didn't have much farther to go anyway.

Somewhere north of Route 68 the hammer was collectively dropped. On 528 I even got into my 53-11 gear combo (ever pedal in deep sand? in a headwind?) in a near-miss of an attempt to catch three breakaway riders. Pedaling, though, wasn't the problem. Breathing was. I was coughing like a smoker.

We got to the parking lot a bit after noon. Although the temperature was in the mid-90s, I didn't really feel it. We'd been slowly baking all day.

Jeff said he was looking forward to a meal of cold, cut fruit waiting for him at home. "It's a guy thing: I'm too lazy to cut it myself," he said, but his wife obliges.

A few of us waited in the shade for Tom to get back, figuring he'd have Herb in tow. He didn't. Tom called his cell. No answer. We wondered if he'd just continued on home, another fifteen miles. Tom decided to do a search from his car. He emailed later to tell us he found Herb in Chesterfield, just a handful of miles away. Herb had been in the deli, in the infamous bathroom, his bike so well-hidden that none of us saw it. Next time he should just piss on the Pineys.

At home, as I cut up a cantaloupe and honeydew for lunch, I got to thinking about what fruit I'm too lazy to eat unless it's already prepared. Oranges, especially ones with seeds. Watermelons, for the same reason. Grapes with seeds. Cherries aren't worth the effort of eating around the pits. On the other hand, I'll wrangle a mango and make a mess of a melon. So, Jeff, it's not just a guy thing. Tomboys do it too.

Tomorrow I'd hoped to test-ride the Cannondale Synapse and the Cannondale Six. My Miss Piggy finger puppets arrived this week, but I didn't hear back from Ross about their search for a bike to test. So I called him today, only to find out that his Cannondale dealer is still scouring the area for one my size.

It seems that the two models, especially the Snyapse, are so popular, and my frame size so common, that there are few, if any, 2010 models to be had. "We're in between model years," Ross said, even though this discussion was taking place pretty near smack-dab in the middle of 2010. The 2011 models are on their way, he told me, and said he'd call me back with an arrival date. I said, "This is the Prius of bikes, isn't it?"

"Yep," he answered. So, here I am, an unwitting victim of the "It Bike" phenomenon. A few years back everyone wanted an Orbea (I wasn't tempted). Before that it was Serotta (no, thanks). When I joined the Free Wheelers everyone had a Bianchi (and I would have, too, if I hadn't found Kermit in Trexlertown). I had no idea the Synapse was so popular. I think I know two, maybe three people who have one. That's okay; I can wait, and put away more money. But that bike is as good as mine. (Sorry, Dad.)

The Snyapse, in Big Joe-approved colors: