Lump of Coal Ride

Van Kirk Road

22 December 2013

I think I finally did it:  I finally killed a PFW Ride Leader jersey.

But, first, pictures from yesterday's foggy ride.  

Jim and Ron met me for a far-too-early-for-December 8:00 a.m. start.  I'd missed four straight weekends of cycling, and, damn it, I was going to get out no matter what.  All I had to do was be cleaned up by the time my grad school buddies were to arrive at 11:30.

We had time enough to take the old Friday night route, a route that was the first I'd memorized, back in my early days, when Kermit was still green and so was I.

The roads were a little wet.  There was still snow on the ground everywhere we went.  This was the shortest day of the year; the sun had only been up for about an hour.

We stopped for pictures on Cold Soil Road, at the Pole Farm (now Mercer Meadows) and across the street from it.

We stopped again on Van Kirk.

I was feeling every inch of road.  Indoor training only does so much.  Ron had been off the bike for as long as I had.  Jim wondered aloud why he'd chosen to accompany such a sorry lot.  (I think it was to hear us complain.)

We had enough oomph in us to climb Woosamonsa.  At the top there's a house being renovated.  I think some trees were taken down, because in all the years I've been on this road, I've never before noticed this view.

We got home in time for me to hand out some Swiss chocolate.  I spent the rest of the day on my butt, catching up with my grad school friends (we do this every year).  Jeff, as always, commandeered the laser dot for the cats to chase.  Steve and Jack, as always, talked about teaching college students.  Shortly after sunset (4:33 p.m.), our Christmas tree lights switched on.  I idly took pictures of ornaments while I listened to Jack and Steve.

My legs weren't tired when I went to sleep.  I woke up at 6:30 a.m. on Sunday morning and looked out the window.  In the dim light I could barely make out that the street was wet, but never mind that, because I was going to ride again no matter what.  I pulled on my 2004 ride leader jersey, the fluorescent yellow one with the time-worn ripped pocket.

Today I'd have to be smelling pretty by 11:30 a.m., in time for Cheryl to pick me up for a brunch at the Peacock Inn in Princeton (the gang would be the cast of regulars from the long-ago Friday night rides, more or less).

The outside thermometer read 67 degrees at 7:22 a.m.  I hadn't heard from Ron nor Jim.  They'd probably go with Winter Larry today.  Why would they do another time-constrained ride with me?  I chomped away at breakfast, weighing my route options, looking at the trees bend in the wind, trading text snark with Dale about whether or not it was truly windy enough for me to ride.

I heard a car door slam outside and saw a red jersey.  Jim.  I texted Dale that there would be someone for me to draft behind.  A few minutes later, Ron drove in.  Who'd'a thunk it?

They were good sports when I suggested going east into the flatlands.  They were good sports when I cried, "Antlers!"  and ran inside.  They were good sports while I attached the antlers to my helmet.  They were good sports when I bitched about how the antlers were wrenching my head every time a gust of wind kicked up.

"You can take them off," Jim suggested.

"No," I replied, feeling duty-bound to my Christmas tradition.  "I will suffer for my performance art."

We swung past Dale and Sean's house. They were sitting by their living room window, looking out.  I could see the exact moment that she saw my antlers as we rode by.

By the time we got to Mercer County Park, we were all filthy.  But it wasn't raining.  At it was 67 degrees out.  In late December.

I kept an eye on the time as we headed east, then south on Imlaystown-Hightstown Road.  It was there that we encountered Tweety, dressed as Santa, doubled over and bobbing in the wind, looking for all the world like a drunk college freshman.

From there we headed west towards Allentown.  The sky over there was that color.  Never mind, I thought, we're going to go north on Old York, catch a righteous tailwind.

Which we did, and it was good.

"Left on Gordon," I said, and as we turned a wall of sideways rain met us at the corner.  

Meh.  It's only rain.

Now I know I've passed a threshold of cycling experience, addiction, insanity.  I have just thought to myself, "Meh.  It's only rain."  I looked down.  "It's cleaning off our bikes," I said.

Bridge out.  Forge ahead anyway; you know what I'm like.  Jim went out in front and was ten yards out into the mud before I could call him back.  We used the detour on Bresnhanan Road, adding miles and minutes in the rain.  I began to wonder if I'd be ready to go by 11:30.

The rain let up while we were waiting to cross Route 130.  We were filthy again when we pulled into my driveway, 40 miles without a break.  We all hosed off our bikes.

"I hate to lead and run," I said, "but I've gotta shower."  The time was 10:55.  I took my helmet, glasses, and Miss Piggy puppet into the shower with me.  Miss Piggy was black with grime.  I scrubbed her with shampoo until she turned pink again, then got around to ridding myself of the same black grime.  Somehow I managed to be ready to go five minutes before Cheryl arrived.  

My poor jersey. (Remember the jersey? We started off with the jersey.)  I've washed it twice.  The mud stains are permanent.

*****

I owe you pictures from my last two days in England.

Here's a magnificent dog in the cafe where Jack and I were having breakfast.  

Mid-day we took a bus to Oxford, where our friend Tiffany, an Oxford professor, put us up for the night in a guest room at her college.  It was Sunday; the Oxford shops closed at 5 p.m., and all of Oxford was out on the street:

The only reason I'm blogging about Oxford at all is so that I can show you this decoration: