#30

Logo shamelessly lifted from the Free Wheelers.

4 August 2012

Flash!  CRACK!

Right over my head.  "That's not good," I'm thinking, and pedal harder.  It doesn't help.  I get across Quakerbridge Road and the question of whether I eat, sleep, or shower first when I get home is settled for me.  Kermit and I are no strangers to being rained on in the finishing stretches of a long bike ride.  We know how to handle each other.  As is always the case with these things, the road in front of my house is nearly dry when I turn into the driveway.

Now I've had my second shower of the day and sitting on a chair for the first time since breakfast.  Much better.  Sun's out again, too.

Here's why my shoes are going to take at least a few days to dry out:

The Century Engines we've relied on in the past have disappeared.  Joe and I didn't have to ask each other if we were going to ride the Princeton Event Century together (although we might have).  More than a month ago I started casting a wide net, hoping to catch some strong people to draft behind.  I caught a lot, and then some.

As has been my custom for the past handful of years, I rode my bike from home to Mercer County Community College, a six-ish mile trip.

When we gathered at registration, there were a dozen of us:

Me
Joe
Jason
Jack H.
Jud
Dave C.
Dave H.
Bob
Gordon
Alan
Mark
Gary!Gary!Gary!  (because I couldn't remember his name)

Even though I laid down the ground rules -- take it easy for the first 25, roll between 18.5 and 19.5 on the flats, no pulls longer than 5 minutes -- we found ourselves separated within the first few miles.  Gummed up in a big crowd, it was easy to do.  Four or five of our people pulled themselves into a faster group as I hollered out to Tom and Herb waiting for us at a Windsor Road intersection.  They didn't catch us, so there we were, down to a decent, manageable number.  So much for amicitia quam celeritate.  They got it reversed.

We all found each other, front and back, at the first rest stop.  The front guys were wiped from hanging with speed demons.  Ed, who'd arrived at the start late, had hammered more than anyone to catch us.  Tom and Herb pulled in soon after we did.

Plain Jim, having the time of his life as a carnival barker, was calling out, "WELCOME TO MILLSTONE!  WATER HERE!  GATORADE HERE!"

Ron, in the background under the tent, showed me his collection of road rash from last week's catastrophic wheel failure.  Cheryl warned me to check if Miss Piggy is running Ksyrium Elites.  (Will do, when I can unglue my ass from this chair.)

About to leave again, I asked, "We'll stay together this time?"  Gary!Gary!Gary!  nodded, having learned his lesson.  I raised my hand.  "Pinky swear?"

We did, and even got a little pace line action going after the rollers were over.  In New Egypt (where I was too lazy to stand in line for water and took advantage of a leaky hose nozzle instead, and where Mike B, laid up from a torn Achilles tendon and surgery, was volunteering) we picked up Fran and Ron (Ron from CT, since we have an NJ Ron already).

Ron and I had an amazing conversation about bike shops and the difference between bike shops and bike stores.  Having owned a shop for almost 20 years,  he had this to say:  "If you need a wheel, a bike store will sell you one.  A bike shop will build you one." 

I gave up trying to count heads in our unruly peloton.  We always seemed to be a dozen or so, but the makeup of that dozen was fungible.  Some peeled off for the metric; others, by earlier arrangement, dropped off the back.

When Gordon's rear tire blew in Pemberton, the timing couldn't have been better.  My back was starting to complain and I had to pee.  We found a place to pull off in what appeared to be an automotive junkyard.  I hid myself behind a tractor while the guys messed with Gordon's wheel.

His tire was sliced through from a piece of glass.  Jud had a spare, which was a blessing, because most people carry spare tubes, but few carry tires.  In ten minutes or so, we had everything sorted out.

I'd blame Gordon for my soaking later on, but it was my poor judgment that did it, and besides, he got caught in it too.

We had another rest stop at the Pinelands Nursery.  Too lazy to stand in line for water again, I went into the bathroom that only the volunteers know about and filled my bottles there.  I ended up in line anyway; I'd drained half of one of my bottles in about one minute anyway.

We lost two more of our group, as Dave C. and Joe decided to make their way back at Dave's pace.  (Good on you, Dave, and Jason, too, for hanging on as long as you did.  Lord knows I'd not have dared even try had I not been riding these roads for-fucking-ever.)

Despite my best efforts to keep eating (not easy to do, since I'm rarely hungry on century rides), the wall I usually hit at 70 miles manifested somewhere before 80.  It becomes a mental game at that point.  I have to keep myself distracted and remind myself that in 10 miles I'll feel better.  Lucky for me, we had one more rest stop at 82 miles.  It was at Walnford Mill, and it saw most of us sprawled out on the grass.

I ate, and the 80-mile wall haze lifted.  I stood up and beckoned the rest to do the same.  Ed was having none of it.  On his back, without turning his head, he said, "There are some clouds up there that warrant further study."

He commented on the two layers, one high up, and one moving in.

It was that second layer that was the problem.  We headed west.  West was battleship gray.  Above us was sunlight an puffy cumulus with an all-too-familiar outlined glow.  I was near the front, being pulled by Jud and Alan (who were up front for, like, the whole ride) and looking at the sky.

"Well, if we get rained on it'll clean the grass off my legs," I offered.  To the north, the sky was blue.  All we had to do was get north before the storm did.  The pace picked up.  Strangers mixed in.  Our group seemed to have fractured, but there were so many I couldn't tell who was with us and who wasn't.  We didn't stop until the light at Route 130 forced us to, and it was only then that I figured out who'd been left behind:  Fran, Ron, and (shit!) Gordon.

The temperature dropped by at least ten degrees.  A headwind swept in (but of course!).  If I kept this pace and went straight home, maybe I'd beat the rain.

By the turn onto Hughes drive, we were starting to get wet.  I said goodbye to whomever was left and lit out for home.

Flash!  CRACK!

To my left.

I'm already wet with sweat so what's the difference?  Sky's still clear where I need to go.  Left onto Youngs and all the cars have their headlights on, both directions.

Flash!  CRACK!

Right over my head.  "That's not good," I'm thinking, and pedal harder.

*****

Thanks, everyone, for a good 100+ miles.  For those of you who left our group at Pinelands early in order to get a head start home, I hope you all had a good laugh when the rest came back wet.  For those I left behind, I'm truly sorry and I hope you're dry now.