Charlestown Road, Hunterdon County
21 October 2012
The route was Ed C's idea. He and Plain Jim had tested it out while I was with the gang in Vermont. Ed suggested that I run it again, as a Hill Slugs ride, in October.
I knew in advance that many of my regulars wouldn't be there. The night before the ride, as I was studying the maps and writing a cue sheet by hand (repetition is a great way to learn), Ed and I were emailing each other. He'd rounded up two other guys: his departmental colleague and another fellow he hadn't met.
I took it for granted that I'd be on the route alone, the three of them far, far ahead.
We started at Spruce Run Reservoir. I was happy and relieved when I saw Plain Jim circling the parking lot. The Excellent Wife had sprung him from his self-imposed cage, knowing full well what he'd be like if he were to have a rideless weekend. This is why she is Excellent.
The two new guys weren't Free Wheelers. They didn't even know this was an official ride. The tall one listened patiently as I gave my safety spiel. The short one pedaled impatiently in circles.
The route traced the path of the Castner Murders. I was hoping Ed would narrate, but he said he wasn't planning to do that.
We climbed out of the reservoir valley by heading north on Charlestown Road. Here we got a display of autumn leaves that has been sorely missing back home:
Plain Jim had warned us about the hairy descent on Iron Bridge, but still I wasn't prepared. The three professors had gone ahead, leaving Jim and me to crawl on our own.
Worst. Descent. Ever.
Still damp from rain the day before, the grade was enough to have me holding my brakes and moving as slowly downhill as I would have been going uphill. As I rounded a corner, I came upon a man standing at the edge of his driveway, holding a coffee cup.
"This sucks!" I called out. "I can't imagine what going up is like." He laughed.
"You haven't gotten to the bridge yet," he said.
"Nope."
"That's the worst."
I stopped before the bridge and pulled out my camera. Jim crept past and disappeared as the road dropped out of sight on the other side.
I decided to get a little scenery in before plummeting to certain death.
Then I clipped in and held on for dear life.
At the bottom the group was waiting. "Sorry," I said. "I was grabbing some pictures. And my brakes."
"Is this the Raritan," I asked. I just assume that anything in Hunterdon County is the Raritan.
"Nope," Ed said. "The Musconetcong," the dividing line between Hunterdon and Warren Counties. The Raritan flows east towards the Hudson. The Musconetcong flows west towards the Delaware. And the hill I'd just nearly tumbled down divides the two.
Not the Raritan
The Musky
Musconetcong River Road
The tall guy turned out to be very friendly. He's a randonneur, so we talked a lot about long-distance riding. He didn't think I'd have trouble with 120 miles, but then I told him I've never done a hilly century. He figured I could get my mind around that eventually too.
Looking at my bike as we were talking about Fiddler's Elbow, he said, "It's your geometry. It's got you pretty far back and upright." That jived with what everyone else has been saying. I told him that if this bike saves my back but can't get me up Fiddler's Elbow, that's fine with me.
Entering Changewater in Warren County, we went past the stone remains of a railway trestle.
Then we got to the house where the murders took place. Outside a woman was hanging a sign, "yard sale," on an artificial Christmas tree. She was the mother of the woman who owned the house, but she knew the history of the murders. She and Ed talked for a while, the rest of us taking pictures and looking around. The murderers were buried near here, she said. The hangings took place in Belvidere, where we were headed for our first rest stop.
To get from Washington to Belvidere, we took Brass Castle Road. The tall guy and I wondered where the name came from.
I gotcher brass castles right here, buddy.
In Belvidere I insisted on a detour to Manunka Chunk Road, because the name appears in the Garden State Stomp.
The tunnel is just beyond the fence.
The short guy was grumbling about the detour. We got to the rest stop in minutes, though.
It's a sit-down place, so we sat down. The last time I took such a leisurely break was probably in Califon, whenever that was. The guys ordered small meals. The waitress poured water with a little coffee in it.
The tall guy looked up Brass Castle on Wikipedia. "It's named after Jacob Brass," he said. How disappointing. "I was hoping for a better story than that," I said.
"It's Wikipedia," he replied. "We can always edit it."
Ed and Jim broke into song, sort of. They were bum-bum-bumming their way through the second movement of Beethoven's 7th loud enough for people at other tables to turn their heads.
We settled the bill and saddled up. The short guy patted his stomach. "This is going to be one of those rides where I gain weight," he said.
"That's going in the blog," I told him.
We were off towards Foul Rift Road. Although it hugged the Delaware River, Ed warned us that it would be anything but flat. Twice I used my granny gear. We passed a pair of randonneurs that the tall guy knew.
We stopped on a railroad bridge to admire the scenery and for Ed to take care of his renal emergency. He was a little worried when I took my camera out.
They were across the river at a coal burning plant.
The three professors got ahead of me and Jim. The road ended at a T, a name I didn't recognize on the street sign. I checked my cue sheet and assumed this was where we'd take our left turn. So we did, and pedaled away from the river for a mile or so before winding up at the intersection of 519, across the street from Roxburg Hill Road, the road that leads to the foot of Fiddler's Elbow. If I were to tell you that I was tempted to keep going straight I'd be completely lying. Instead I was studying the map, wondering how I'd gotten us blown off course this badly.
Nominally the leader, I could have gone any way I wanted to go. We could have turned down 519 and meet up with the guys as they reached the intersection a few miles away, but I wanted to stay on the planned course. So we turned around. Despite the headwind, the extra miles were worth it for the fields and hills that faced us as we made our way back. I didn't want to stop for pictures on the off chance that the guys might be waiting for us somewhere along the river.
I was surprised but relieved when we saw Ed coming back towards us. "Wrong turn," I explained. I told him that on a group ride it's a good idea to wait at ambiguous intersections.
Ed said, "There are some houses up ahead on stilts that you have to see."
He wasn't kidding. The road, at river level, was bordered on both sides by houses raised several stories into the air. Next to one was the rest of our group and a man who assured us that the flood waters necessitate these things.
The PhDs got ahead again, but we caught up at the next corner, where Ed was obediently waiting.
We were going south, towards Bloomsbury. When we passed Ridge Road I knew where we were again. "If you go that way you get to the bottom of Fiddler's Elbow," I said. The group got a little spread out. I was last, of course, but I didn't mind. Ahead of me, on an incline, Jim took his left hand off his handlebars. He reached out, bending and straightening his arm, then moving it in and out. I wondered if he were hurt or trying to snap out a kink, but the movement was too regular.
At the top of the rise, he signaled for the left turn. Ed was out of sight. The two professors were talking to a motorcyclist. Jim and I had a clear road for the left turn, so we took it and stopped, waiting for the others to follow.
"Is your arm OK?" I asked. "What was going on back there?"
Jim smiled. "Beethoven!"
Behind us, the two professors took off down the road. That left me and Jim somewhat perplexed. So much for following the ride leader. "This is what happens when everyone has a cue sheet," I said. Jim checked his GPS and I pulled out my phone. Both of our devices told us that we were on Liberty Road, exactly where we should be. I dabbled over to the intersection and looked down the hill. The three of them were long gone. "Let's go," I said. "Ed knows where he is. He'll meet us in Bloomsbury. That road and this one both go more or less to the same place. His'll hit 57. He can turn there."
One of the Free Wheelers rules is, "You ride ahead, you're on your own."
So Jim and I had a good old time making our way towards Bloomsbury. Because the stop hadn't been added until after Ed made the route online, Jim didn't know the way. I did, though, so I led him into town. We hadn't been there very long, just long enough to admire a vintage Raleigh leaning up against the general store, when Ed rolled in. He'd gone the way I figured he had, the other two having caught up to him.
"Where are they?"
"They decided that they no longer trusted me and that they were going to follow their Garmins," he said. "I told him that this rest stop wasn't on the route but they didn't listen. They went ahead." A few minutes later his phone rang and he guided them in.
I tried asking the short guy what happened, but he looked right through me. When I asked again, he said that the problem was that Ed and I didn't have each other's numbers. "Yes we do," I told him. "He couldn't find it," he said, and went out the door.
Outside the randonneurs were having a meal. Ed and Jim made sure that I got a picture of the Frenchman's jersey:
"Hill Slug cousins!" they said.
It means "flying snails." (I just looked them up. My word, I'm not the only verbose cycling blogger out there!)
Of all the rest stops I frequent, the most hard-core stop at Bloomsbury. Last time we met a European who was going to go up Fiddler's Elbow on his way home, just for fun. I'm not worthy of this rest stop.
We took Bloomsbury-Asbury Road, a wide-open stretch that rolled, mostly up. Once more we were ditched by the PhDs. At the top of a roller, Jim stopped.
"This is where I bonked last time," he said.
"That's 'cause you didn't stop at Bloomsbury." I pulled out my camera. I'd taken pictures here on the Fiddler's Elbow ride, when I was facing the other direction.
Jim looked down at his GPS and panicked. "It's 3:30! I have to be home and changed by 4:30 and we have eleven miles to go! I gotta go!"
"Go!" I commanded, and turned around for another picture.
Now I was on my own, a little pissed that the Hill Slugs group mentality had been blown to pieces, but relieved to be free of the pressure of having to keep up. I'd probably never see those two professors again anyway.
How did it get to be so late? Surely we weren't going that slowly. I checked my cycle computer. It was just about 2 p.m. I wondered if I misheard Jim, or if perhaps he'd looked at his total riding time and confused it for the time of day. No matter now. He'd figure it out when he started his car.
I was pleasantly surprised when I made the left turn and found the three professors waiting. "Jim had to get home," I said. I didn't stop. They'd catch up and pass me anyway.
The first one was the short guy. "What's that little person on your saddle bag?" he asked.
Seriously? "You don't know Muppets?"
"No," he said, deadpan.
"Miss Piggy!"
He passed without a word. How could that be? How could someone within ten years of my age not know who Miss Piggy is? Ah, never mind. He's a scientist.
We were on the home stretch now, just a mountain to climb and we'd be there. Ed said we'd have eight hills to get over. I started counting.
In a clearing Ed was stopped. "Picture?" I asked. He was thinking of it. The sun was directly in the way of the best shot. I tried for across the street instead. But for the power line, it would be all right.
"I like [the tall guy]," I told him, "but [the short guy] is a little prickly." Ed agreed, but they'd known each other forever. We began to talk about academic department politics. That conversation took us all the way home, and I'd lost count of the hills.
Ed was happy to hit 47 mph on the descent towards the reservoir. His goal is to hit 50. I did that once. I don't need to do it again.
At the entrance to the reservoir I stopped for a tree.
It won't be long now before every one is all the way bare.
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