Bucolica with Warehouse, Pumpkins, and Silt Fence
unknown artist, Hill Slug School, early 21st century
15 September 2013
I got Guru'd on Monday.
Ever since I herniated my L5-S1 disc, I've had to deal with the muscles around the injury seizing like writer's cramp when descending or riding in the flatlands. It was a lot worse in the early days of rehab, but Ross helped fix things by giving Kermit a different stem. Sure, it made Kermit look like a giraffe, but it allowed me to go an hour or so without stopping (a quick dismount and back arch is all it takes to reset). Unfortunately, my neck and shoulders suffered.
In the hills Miss Piggy rarely gave me the writer's cramp problem, but I never felt that I was running at full power. I couldn't seem to pick up any steam on the rare flat road between hills. Plus my neck and shoulders would hurt on long rides.
It was time for a custom fit, my first ever in over 13 years of obsessive road cycling.
I crammed Kermit and Miss Piggy into my car and wheeled them into the store at 6 p.m. on Monday. Ross took measurements from both bikes and then from me. He measured my shoulder width with a tape measure and standover height with a spring-loaded wooden device I was to straddle and balance. It looked less obscene than it felt.
Although we'd long ago made all of the standard measurements for both bikes match each other, the ones that the Guru needed revealed that there was as much as 1 cm difference between the two. To an outside observer that doesn't sound like much, but to a sore cyclist, it might as well be the distance between here and the moon.
The Guru suggested a setting based on my measurements. I climbed aboard and started pedaling. With the tap of a few keys, Ross made millimeter changes. "Which feels better, this or this?"
"I...I don't know." I couldn't tell what he or the Guru were doing. I'd feel my body move, but I couldn't have said which way.
I was starting to panic a little. What if I were to make the wrong choice?
After a few more tweaks and this-or-this questions, we found a setting that I could definitely say was better. He opened up a window that displayed my cadence and smoothness of pedal stroke.
"Now I'm going to enter in the Waterford," he said, and tapped in Kermit's settings. My upper back moved and my cadence dropped a little.
"Wow."
"See that?"
"Now the other one." he said.
"Miss Piggy."
"Miss Piggy," he grinned.
My cadence dropped a lot, by 5 rpm. Was I doing that on purpose? He went back and forth between the Guru and the Pig. There was no doubt. "I can hear your cadence dropping," he said, as the settings were switching.
So that settled that. Both bikes would be adjusted. Kermit would get wider handle bars and a different stem. Miss Piggy would get a new stem too.
They were ready in a day.
This weekend was the road test.
I invited a handful of people along for a Saturday ride; only Jim and Ron could make it. I had the destination, Sergeantsville, in mind, but no route past getting to Poor Farm.
Jim met me at home and chatted with Jack while I put on my shoes and finished my coffee. We picked up Ron in Pennington. For these first few miles I really couldn't tell what had changed.
"If I can beat Ron up Poor Farm then I know it worked." Ron and Jim finished ahead of me, but I came as near to sailing up Poor Farm as I ever will.
I also started to notice that I was keeping my hands on the hoods a lot more often. On most hills I'd been moving them to the top of the bar. I was able to hammer on the flat sections of Wertsville Road too.
Hey, Tom! I did this for your benefit. Do I look fast now?
On Route 579 in Ringoes, an abandoned group of hay bales:
Upon closer inspection, I wouldn't want to touch a bale covered in poison ivy either.
A rusty mailbox across the street from the hay:
Sun and his wife want to sell the Sergeantsville general store building and the business with it. "We're old," she explained. "We want to retire."
Whoever buys this place will have some huge shoes to fill.
Some places we pass regularly yet never stop to notice. Here we were stopped for some wardrobe change or another. Can you guess where this is?
Unionville Winery's Bel-Well Vineyard, vines covered in cloth to keep out the birds:
By the time we dropped Ron off at his car, my back was a little sore. When I got home, though, aside from a quick hang from the pull-up bar, I didn't stretch or do any PT. I ate lunch, showered, ran errands, and by late afternoon my legs were so tight that they were pulling on my back.
This happens sometimes after hilly rides. There are also days when my back hurts because I did no exercise at all the day before. Aha. I did nothing yesterday. I didn't know what to think.
I mapped the route we'd taken: over 3000 feet of climbing between the Pennington start and finish, with a pace higher than the usual Slug fare. No wonder I was tired. As I was doing my stretches I got worried. Was this just my usual hill-climbing fatigue? What if the adjustments were worse for my back than before? Had I gained power at the risk of making my injury worse? Would I even sleep? Would it hurt to turn over? Would I have anything left for tomorrow's Ride for McBride?
I went to bed heavily medicated, with a nine-year-old cat purring on my head.
The next thing I knew, my alarm was going off. I got out of bed pain-free. Nothing was tight as I did my morning PT. That was a good sign.
I met Jim and Ron at Ron's house in Robbinsville. The sun was low in the sky. My fingers were cold when we set out for the 11-mile ride to Tall Cedars. Kermit felt different the minute I got onto the saddle. "I feel like I'm eight hundred feet up," I mused.
Nothing hurt. I wasn't tired. I could keep my back straight and my shoulders down without moving my hands to the top of the handlebar.
On Gordon Road, as we approached the warehouses, we noticed the pumpkins. Getting a good picture was difficult. I'd try again on the way home.
We were just saddling up again when a car stopped next to us. "Get out of the road!" Tom called from his open window. We traded a few barbs before I told him to get out of the road. "See ya at Tall Cedars!"
We cruised the rest of the way into Hamilton.
A good quarter of a mile before our last turn, onto Sawmill, Jim's GPS was beeping its little beeper off, signaling the upcoming turn. Remember this. It will be important later. This is called foreshadowing.
Seventeen people wanted to ride with the Hill Slugs. Ira would take another handful half an hour later.
Among our number was Jeff
The Derailleur Nailer
, whom I hadn't seen since shortly after his adventure with the pork roll. He got a flat and diagnosed wheel damage when we were less than a quarter mile out. We were down to sixteen.
We held together surprisingly long, given the talent spread. Things got messy around mile sixteen. We splintered into three groups, the middle one waiting for the slower one when there was a mechanical problem. As soon as we got started again, we splintered again. I was with the middle group, which was really those from the fast group who thought to wait for the rest. No problem, I figured. We'd all regroup at the rest stop a mile or two down the road.
Except for this: At the rest stop, as Cheryl was pulling in, she said, "Jim and Bruce just went past without stopping. We were shouting. He didn't hear us."
Strange, I thought. The road arrows are clear. The rest stop is listed on the cue sheet. There's a huge, painted sign with gold letters that say, "Plumsted Township Recreational Field." Maybe they didn't want to stop. Maybe Bruce wants to take it slow and steady. Maybe we'll catch them later. Maybe Jim is gonna be hella pissed off.
That last thought hounded me.
"It's always safe to presume," he constantly reminds us, "that Jim does not know where he is." Maybe he'd turn around and come back here before we all take off.
As we were getting ready to leave, I told Cheryl and Ron that I was feeling great. "I kinda want to go with the fast group, see what I can do," I said, gesturing towards Kermit.
"No problem," they said. "We'll see you back at Tall Cedars."
We all left at the same time anyway. As we approached the light on Main Street where Route 528 comes in, we saw Jim and Bruce going the other way. Had they gone to Wawa instead? Jim shouted something. All I heard was "rest stop." He looked angry. Cheryl and Ron were a little bit back from the rest of us. There was time for Jim to swing around and catch them. I looked in my rear view mirror but there were too many bodies behind me to tell what was going on.
I turned my attention to hanging with the group. I wondered how long I could keep it up. When we turned onto Hill Road I stayed in my big ring and stayed with them. When I climbed out of the valley -- finally in my small ring -- I passed almost everyone and joined Tom at the front.
We were at mile 40. For the next 10 miles I was in the front most of the time. Yay, Kermit! Hooray for Guru!
Then, on Route 528, I found trouble staring me in the face. Trouble in the shape of bright orange barrels standing between us and our next turn, the cue arrow painted well beyond the blockade. Shit. Well, here we are again, me and Tom and a closed road. I knew what to do.
"Follow me," I said, and weaved between two barrels.
The road was closed, but clear. Good thing I was the one who came up with this route. Cheryl helped me paint the arrows for this half, so she'd know what to do. Joe would be with Ira, so he could get them through. That would be most of the FreeWheelers. The rest, well, if they follow their cue sheets or their GPSs, they'll figure it out.
But there was a nagging echo: "It's always safe to presume that Jim does not know where he is." If he misses this turn I'll never hear the end of it. Bruce has been riding these roads for years, though. He'll know how to get through.
A few miles later we were pulling into the gravel driveway at Tall Cedars. The first person I saw, strolling towards us, camera out, was Jim.
"What happened?"
He wasn't the least bit angry, at least not anymore. In a convenient concoction of missed turns, doublings back, and an A-level pace, he got here before we did with more or less the same mileage. He'd left his anger on the road, somewhere in Arneytown.
So all was good, and in time for Jared, Joe's son, to announce this year's scholarship recipient:
Jared's mother, Judy, looks on:
One of Joe's former students also spoke. There's one thing he said that I vowed to memorize: "I learned to channel my inner Joe and use it at the right time."
On our way back to Ron's house, we stopped again for the pumpkins.
"This is the quintessential New Jersey," I said. "Warehouses, farm fields, silt fences, and mud."
It's 11:00 p.m. now. After 56 hilly miles yesterday and 72 flat ones today, I don't even feel as if I've been on a bike this weekend. The jury is still out on Miss Piggy, but Kermit's Guru gets an A+.
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