539 Blueberries

6 July 2013

The cats scatter at 7:10.  Plain Jim is outside.  This is far too early even for him.

"Did I put 7:15 in the blog?"

"Yep."

"I meant 7:45."  Hasty check on my phone to make sure my ride doesn't start at 8:00.  8:30.  Whew.  "Want some coffee?"

Hot.  Jersey-sticking-to-my-skin hot.  Jersey sticking to my skin at 7:40 a.m. while I drink coffee on the front steps.  Jim has foregone his usual circling and is on the steps too.  Hot.

Forget the 69-mile route.  "We're gonna do the 50."  That plus the 14 it takes to get to the park and back.  On our way over we can see the air.

Tom rolls in, says he's crazy like us.  Then Gordon, then John W.

The Sharon Road bridge over the Turnpike is open.

"Shade," John begs.  We're on the wrong side of Route 1 for shade.

I'm craving a Slurpee. 

I make it worse, too, by going off the cue sheet so that we can stop at Emery's Berry Patch more miles than I thought southeast of New Egypt.  The group I didn't ride with on July 4 went there.  I didn't count on it being five miles out of the way, down Long Swamp Road, all the way to the end.  Nobody is complaining, except John.  "Shaaaaade!"

"Great rest stop!" 

I'm focused on water, so much so that all I buy is drinks.  I don't have hands enough for a muffin.  I'm too thirsty.

To get home we're going off the cue sheet, so far off that I stuff it in my bag.  We're taking 539 as far as we can stand it.

Getting to the berry farm took us hours.  Getting home seems to be taking us 20 minutes.  I've never been on this stretch of road before.  What a tacky ice cream stand over there.  Lots of traffic, but not as much as I'd expected.  Wide shoulders.  Nobody's complaining, not even Jim.  He only sings because I notice he's not singing.

We're in a pace line.  Familiar intersections blow by:  528 (too far south), 537 (too much traffic), Burlington Path (we were there already), Polhemustown (forget it; we're almost in Allentown anyway). 

When we reach Old York Road, John and Jim are riffing: "Are we there yet. Jim?" 

"Almost."

We turn onto Gordon Road, where the Amazon warehouse is going in.  Look at that, a brand-new, bouncing baby berm.  Mud and trees. 

"Are we there yet?"

"When we get to the bridge."

Turnpike overpass:  "Is that the bridge?"

"It's a bridge."

Tom says, "When we get to Sharon Road, go right, and left on Windsor.  That way I can draft off you guys 'til South Lane."

"Are we there yet?"

At Sharon Road, I tell Tom, "I need to get these boys home for their nap.  I'm going straight.  It's more direct."  The wind will be at his back.

"Are we there yet?"

Back at the park I ask, "Which bridge did you mean?"

"The one back there.  On Old Trenton."  The one that's about to be torn up, closing the road, screwing up our park access for lord knows how long.

John says, "I feel great!"

There's shade on the bike path in the woods through the park.  I have just enough oomph left to get up the little hill on Princeton Pike.  My palms are prunes.

There's a text from Terry C:  "Cannot believe you took Gordon to blueberry farm!  I was waiting for him to come home to go with me -- darn -- at least he did not have ice cream yet :-)"

I write, "That place needs to be visited by car.  I need to go back."  I'm hoping I can hitch a ride, which is what happens.  Jack has no interest.  It's too hot.

After a traffic jam on 195, we're back on 539, back through Allentown, past Polhemustown, Burlington Path, 537, 528, turning on Long Swamp.  Terry wants to pick berries.  Gordon and I will have nothing more to do with the sun.  We hide inside.  I fill a basket with preserves, berries, a pie, blood sugar dropping, one muffin each for me and Gordon.  I spend as much money as miles.  Might as well; this place is too far away for me to be back any time soon.

By the side of the building, under an eave, exactly where we'd sat this morning, we eat and wait for Terry.  Hot.  I'm sticky all over again.

Terry honks the horn.  She has 5 pounds of blueberries in the trunk.  "Ice cream!"  I don't know where she's planning to go until we're upon it, the one we'd passed this morning:

Terry  cradles her sundae.  "How is this a small?"

My answer, "We're American."

I get a frozen lemonade, far better than a Slurpee.

We stay away from the highway on the way home.  On Old York I ask if we can stop on Gordon.  "I need to send Sean pictures of the berm."

Beautiful, ain't it?  Aaaah, New Jersey.