"Tyler State Park, not Tyler Arboretum," Tom said.
"Whoops. Philly girl."
We were on the D&R Canal towpath at Carnegie Lake on Washington Road. The temperature was in the mid-20s.
We were joined by Chris (riding Animal), Snakehead Ed , Bagel Hill Barry, and (gasp!) Mighty Mike. Tom suggested heading north.
There were more people on the towpath than I expected. We saw runners, walkers, and other bikers who were not nearly as hardcore looking as we were.
I stopped often for pictures, and when I did, Ed would stop to move his chain back to the big ring. At home he'd messed with the front derailleur as much as he was able, and on the stand it was fine. But out here the chain would not stay on the big ring. When Chris questioned him, Ed answered, "Because it's a piece of shit." This would be repeated throughout the ride.
The surface of the canal was frozen.
Sometimes there were frozen ripples:
Mighty Mike's tire slowly went flat. When it's this cold, we don't bother to change mountain bike tires unless we have to. If it's a slow leak, pump it up and keep on going. There's enough time for a picture:
It's been cold all week, and we've had some high winds too. I called out that I was stopping so that I could take a picture of branches blown onto the ice.
Ed, behind me, calculated that he'd go around me. Unfortunately, where I chose to pull over was bordered by a long stretch of ice, which Ed figured he'd ride over rather than hit me. This didn't go according to plan. He skidded, my rear wheel stopping his slide.
He stood up. "Ow ow ow," he said.
"Did I break you?"
"I broke me," he answered.
I took my pictures while he dusted himself off.
"You need Chris to teach you how to respect ice," I told him. After that I noticed that he was riding over ice every chance he got. I, like all the others except Chris, chose to go around each of them.
Farther along, a half-frozen lock:
A sheet of ice foam floated at the end:
In Kingston, the towpath is a tunnel under the crossroad. Tom and Chris were ahead of me when I emerged. Tom was stopped as Chris attempted to get over a large tree blocking the path. Back in my mountain biking days, I used to watch from the sidelines as Chris would do this sort of thing. More often than not he'd clear the obstacle. He didn't this time, and I watched the slow-motion fall, feeling every slip and slam, saying "Ow ow ow" as he came to rest inches away from impaling his back on a thick branch of the tree trunk.
He dusted himself off, lifted his bike over the log, and pedaled on. This is why he has Animal on his handlebars.
When we reached Rocky Hill, Mike pumped up his tire a third time. Tom decided to turn around. Mike went with him. The rest of us decided to go on to the next intersection, at Six Mile Run.
Ed, wanting some smooth pavement to ease his bruises, suggested we take Canal Road back to Kingston.
"Are you broken?" I asked again. "Do I need to make an incident report?" He assured me that he was fine. "Just bruised," he said.
On our way we passed several groups of road bikers. And here I thought we were exemplary of Rule #5.
At Rocky Hill, Chris led us on the less well-groomed trail across the canal from the official towpath. "There are some car-sized mud holes out there," Ed said.
"Um," I said, worrying about my back.
"They'll be filled with ice," Ed assured me. Those I could go around.
I detoured around the first one, Ed behind me. "I told ya," he said. "Car sized." He was next to me when I was going around the next one. He pedaled straight across it. Impressive. Back in the day I'd have been cajoled into doing that too, but now I risk back surgery if I fall the wrong way. I'll go around.
The sun had softened the mud. Despite the below-freezing air, we were going to return muddy.
We got back onto the towpath in Kingston.
Here's another frozen lock:
Carnegie Lake near Harrison Street:
On the lake, east of Washington Road, the lake was filled with ice skaters. All that's needed is some snow on the ground and presto! Norman Rockwell.
I watched a lone figure skater as she set up for a spin. I watched her do a corkscrew, watched her feet travel on the ice, remembering how tough it is to spin in one spot. I used to do that, I thought. I turned back to my pedals. Now I do this.
For a wussy, flat towpath ride, our bikes were filthy.
Compared to Chris, who didn't detour from soft ground, I was sterile. His cable was caked in so much dirt that he could no longer shift:
Ed was proud of the grass in his derailleur. He wanted a picture.
"No incident report!" he said. We tried to figure out how far we'd gone. He guessed something in the high 20s. I was betting on something closer to 10.
Ed emailed me later to say he'd mapped the route to 24 miles, which is what I got, too, more or less. "Are you broken?" I asked again. Again he assured me he was unharmed past needing a little ice and ibuprofen. All the same, I think I need to go write this up on the ride sheet and send it in. Sorry, Ed. Rules is rules.
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