22 August 2012
"Tom!" Dave C shouted out. "How often do you get called a lying bastard?"
"A lot."
We'd just climbed out of Perkasie on a 20% grade from a rolling stop. "I need to invest in a triple," Blake had said as he'd passed me, standing. The road was short, steep, narrow, and with a pothole I did my best to swerve around while pushing my weight (it's good for something) forward in order to keep my front wheel on the pavement. Behind me, Jack H had said, "Whoa!" as I'd veered left. At the same time, it seemed, Tom had gone off to the right and stopped. Jim and Dave were behind us somewhere out of my rear view mirror's sight.
To be fair, Tom had warned us. And to be even fairer, he and I had been on this road last year, in the other direction, grabbing our brakes. I sort of knew what to expect.
Tom kicks my ass on every hill. We have the same bike, the same setup, and we're just about the same age. He'd already handed me my ass on today's first hill, a climb that had me bottomed out on my gears less than a mile from the parking lot. So when I got to the top before him this time, I knew it was an event never to be repeated. Not that we're competing. We're totally not competing. There's no point. He kicks my ass every time. Except this one.
Anyway, Tom turned out not to be quite the lying bastard we thought he was going to be. The terrain leveled off after that, relatively speaking.
Good thing, too, because this was one of those mornings when I just wasn't feeling it. I hadn't had enough sleep. Instead of my usual pre-ride brew, I'd used some inferior beans given to me as leftovers from someone who doesn't drink coffee. It tasted so bad that I didn't even finish what I had. If the caffeine was doing anything, I didn't know about it. To add to the insult, the coffee I got at the rest stop wound up being flavored (bleah!) and I didn't get more than a few sips of that swill down.
Blake and I were on the lookout for good road names. We passed a sign announcing a closure at the intersection of Sheep Hole Road.
I wasn't the only one feeling draggy. Not that Jim didn't charge to the front on more than a few inclines.
This year's route was partly last year's backwards and partly new roads. It wouldn't be a Tom ride if we didn't encounter a bridge out. This one hardly registers, though, because we didn't even have to dismount to get across.
When we got to Lake Nockamixon we headed to the marina.
There, a woman standing by us near the docks gave us a history of the lake. From what I understood her to say, once the creek was dammed, one hurricane did what the engineers had figured it would take months to do, and the lake was born. She pointed out where roads once were, told us about a small dam breech that tipped the boats over, and was derailed when Dave said, "I'm guessing Upper Tiddly on the Winks" (or not quite, but you get the idea).
She smiled. "Close," she said. "Lower Squatting" (or something like that).
"I thought I detected northern," he replied, and then it was her turn to guess where he was from. She didn't do as well as he had done.
As we had done last year, we stopped at the dam on the Tohickon. "Get some pictures," Jim commanded. "So I can steal them."
Tom took us on a little loop. "There's a marker on Dustin's map. 148. I don't know what it is but we're about to find out. I think it's supposed to be a waterfall."
"That's it?" Dave asked, indignant. "This is what you took us out of the way for?"
We went on Elephant Road again, by the church that I took pictures of last time. Soon after we wound up on Curly Hill Road, which was not much of a hill, and straight.
Our last couple of miles were a slow cool-down along the path that surrounds Lake Galena in Peace Valley Park.
Because I missed getting a dock picture last week:
At the end of the ride, I asked Tom to sign his new book. While he was doing that I checked my phone for messages. Cheryl had called. I had a feeling I knew what it was about. I waited until everyone had gone before I called her back.
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