A Little of Everything Ride

one more annoying Piggy thing

3 January 2014

I'd typed "RIDE CANCELED" and was ready to hit "save" when I changed my mind.  Surely I could get the group back to Pennington before the rain started.  My reputation as a tough cyclist would be at stake were I to call it quits with only a 50% chance of getting wet.

At 9:00 a.m. I set out to Pennington on Miss Piggy, having installed her new saddle days before. Something didn't feel quite right, as if my weight were being pushed backwards, as if I were sitting on a tiny bar stool.  I must not have leveled the saddle, having been so concerned with getting the height and setback correct down to the millimeter.  No worries; I carry a hex wrench in case any saddles, seat posts, or stems need adjustment. I didn't expect to see anyone in Pennington.  I could tweak the saddle in the parking lot before heading out for a short ride on my own.

As I approached the bottom of the little hill on Lawrenceville-Pennington Road, I saw a red tail light making its way up the hill.  From this distance I couldn't tell what kind of bike the light was attached to.  It took my catching up to it to see the familiar maroon Mercien, fenders, steel, lugs, chrome, and bags.  Plain Jim would be jealous, again, that he missed this bike, again.

Ron A and I rode the rest of the way to Pennington together.  Waiting for us were Bagel Hill Barry and John K, as well as Russell (this week's New Guy, who, like so many other New Guys, will be with the Fastboys come spring).  Then Snakehead Ed pulled in.  Any thoughts of a mellow route that would stick close to home vanished.  With Ed and Russell both chasing the dream of a 50-mph descent, I felt compelled to deliver at least one downhill that would hold them until warmer weather. Maybe we'd go to Lambertville after all.

I had to fix my saddle first.  It took some digging to find my wrench.  I leveled the saddle and tightened the bolt that holds the saddle to the seatpost, then pocketed the wrench for easy access.  I had a bad feeling that I'd need it again.

And I did, as soon as we got across the street.  This time I leaned into it as hard as I could.  Much better.

We were still in Pennington when I asked Russell if he'd heard of Poor Farm.  He hadn't.  I didn't say anything else.  Given what he'd told me about his climbing experience and ambitions when I first met him last weekend, I didn't figure I'd need to coach him.  All I said, as we turned onto Woosamonsa and began to climb, was "Watch.  They're gonna curse me.  RIGHT TURN!"

Pure assholery on my part, sending people up Poor Farm on the second day in January.  I usually save that for early spring.  It shaves off  a few miles en route to Lambertville, though.

I could have given Ed and Russell the big descent on Harbourton-Woodsville Road, but the last time I was up here the pavement was so uneven that there was no joy in it.  That and the cold air made me choose a right turn as I crested the hill.  We took Linvale instead.

At the top I checked the radar. The same mass of nastiness that had been hanging to the west was still there.  It didn't look as if it had moved any.  I figured we'd be OK to get to Rojo's.  We went left on Mountain and left on Rocktown.

That's when the snow started.  At the intersection with Route 31 I turned us around.  We retraced our path back to Mountain.  My saddle had slipped again; I could feel it forcing me backwards.  I didn't want to stop to fix it.  Instead I stood up to loosen my bunched-up leggings every now and then.

We took Rileyville into Hopewell. The snow having stayed at the top of the mountain, we all agreed that coffee was in order.  There's a Rojo's at the Brick Farm Market, where I'd never been, so, at Ed's urging, that's where we went.  As we parked our bikes, the snow caught up with us.

Before going inside, I pulled out my wrench again.  I tightened the bolt as much as I could.  Barry took over and leaned into it as well.  If this wouldn't fix it, something would require a mechanic.

I used two of my deck of Rojo's $5 gift cards to pay for the Slugs who were at the counter with me. We took our time inside, and the snow stopped.

It had stuck to the brick walkway, though, and the streets were wet.  I chose the most direct, least hilly route through Hopewell to the golf course.  Now we were dealing with sleet, which, unless you keep your head down, smarts.  Now I know the sound of sleet on carbon.

On Mount Rose I hit a bump and heard the sickening crunch of carbon against carbon as my saddle popped upwards again.  One more time with the wrench. The sleet turned to rain.

One more adjustment before the last stretch on Pennington-Rocky Hill Road.  The sleet was big enough now that Ed was calling it hail.  He offered me a ride to Hart's from Pennington.  I accepted, as the sleet-hail turned to an honest, steady rain in the parking lot.  Poor Ron A had 17 miles go go to get home.  He wasn't fazed, though, having fenders and rain gear and thick tires and lights all around.

Walking into Hart's, I felt ashamed.  "I can't even change a frigging saddle," I whined.  Pete (a young and worthy wrench) set me at ease by letting me know that this particular Synapse seat post is a bitch. At first we thought the saddle rails were bent, but it turns out that the saddle had slightly slipped from the bolt on one side.  The whole thing was crooked now.  He dismantled everything and brought out a digital torque wrench and some pink, gritty paste, neither of which I have at home.  He made it look easy, but it still took the better part of ten minutes to level and position the saddle.  The bolt required more torque than I could give it with the tools I have.

I thought about the number of times I'd swapped saddles on Kermit without problems.  Three, four? I looked at Miss Piggy and said, "I'm beginning to really dislike this frame."  Pete smiled and said, "You have a triple with mountain bike gearing."  Ed said, "Get a compact."

It's more than that, though (although the trouble I've had with the drivetrain is plenty on its own). Getting the rear wheel back on after a tube change almost always results in a dropped chain, the force of seating the wheel into the dropouts being enough to shake the chain loose no matter which ring it's in.  I had to wail on the seat post to change its height for the new saddle. And now this.

On the other hand, my goofy gearing got me up Poor Farm on the second day in January, and I wasn't even last.

*****

I would be remiss in my blogging if I didn't report the exchange between Ed and me after Ed lent me a spare pair of unwashed lobster-claw gloves on his Wednesday below-freezing road ride:

Me:  Thanks for these gloves.  They're great!

Ed:  Just don't lick them.

Me:  Ha!

Ed:  Damn!  I should know better than to say this stuff to a prolific blogger.

Me:  Ha!  I probably wouldn't have remembered it if you hadn't just said that.

(And I probably would have forgotten entirely had Ed not insisted I carry the gloves with me today, just in case.)