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In Which We Almost Reach the Monmouth County High Point

Sandy Hook

26 April 2015

Before you read any further, read Tom's post about the history of the Horn Antenna.

Done?  Good.

I was tired today.  My legs weren't fresh and I didn't get enough sleep.  That the first half of the ride was uphill and into the wind didn't help my mood either.

There were 8 of us on the ride: Tom, me, Ron, Snakehead, Bagel Hill Barry, Brent, Jeff (neither Ours nor X), and Pete G (putting in a rare appearance this side of Route 1). We started from Monmouth Battlefield.

Monmouth County is sand dunes.  It used to be under the ocean.  I think Tom found all the big dunes that we'd never before climbed.  

The county's high point was 18 miles into the ride.  A few in the group got to the Lucent driveway before Tom and I did.  He told me to turn and keep going.  At the far end of the parking lot was a fence blocking a winding climb.  

This was a Tom ride. Since when have either of us been deterred by a fence, road block, or sign?

I could see a small gap to the right side of the fence, and, in my climbiest of climbing gears, aimed for it.  I managed to get around it without falling or going off the pavement.  

"Laura!  Stop!"  Tom was yelling at me.  I stopped and saw him at the fence.  The others were milling about in the parking lot.  In the distance I could see someone talking to one of us.

We would not be permitted to see the antenna.  The best we could do was look for it between the trees at the top of the hill.  I took pictures from where I'd stopped.

The guys at the fence:

The road not traveled:

Somebody made a wisecrack about me almost winding up in handcuffs.

"I want fuzzy leather ones," I said.

"Whoah!" the guys replied in unison.  "Now we know too much about you," Pete (I think it was Pete) said.

"You can have mine," Brent offered.  "I have three."

Anyway, if you look between the trees at the center of this picture, you'll see a whitish thing.  That's the antenna.  That's all we saw.

Tom took a group picture and then we headed off to Atlantic Highlands for our rest stop.  After that we crossed the bridge onto Sandy Hook.  At the top of the bridge I called out that I wanted to stop for pictures.  I wasn't the only one taking snapshots.

Behind us was a good view of Twin Lights:

Sandy Hook (left) and the mainland, looking south:

New York City to the north:

Another southern view:

"Is this a photography class or what?" Pete complained after I caught Tom on camera (It's only fair; I don't like having my picture taken either, but I let him and Jim do it anyway.)

We went north into the Sandy Hook National Recreation Area and turned onto the first beach.  I've always only gone to the farthest one, Gunnison, so this was new.

We dismounted at the foot of a stairway leading over a dune.  I asked Brent if he could move his bike so that I could get a picture.  He obliged.

"Shh!  Art is happening!" somebody said, and the guys made some jokes at my expense, or at art's expense, or something.  I was focused on focusing, so I wasn't really paying attention.  Plus I'm half deaf anyway.

We climbed the stairs to look at the ocean.  I went back down and took out my camera.

"I got all of you back," I said. "I just got a picture of boy butts."

They, of course, enjoyed that. "Now I'll have to blog about this," I said.

"And the fuzzy handcuffs," Snakehead reminded me.

Here's the beach:

"It never comes out," Tom said. "It's too flat."

"I like the beach when there aren't too many people on it."

We had a tailwind home, and the road through Rumson was just paved.  Still, too much of today -- and of most of our rides this season -- was spent frantically pointing towards gaping holes in the blacktop.

After the ride I wandered up to the edge of the battlefield.  The apple trees are starting to bloom; I was hoping to be able to see them.

Kinda sorta maybe, just above the green grass, below the farmhouse.

I drove to Battleview Orchards.  Winter Larry likes to stop there. I don't, because he always puts this particular stop only 15 miles into the 45-mile route (when none of us is tired nor hungry), because there's little there I want to eat while on a ride, and because the coffee is bad.  I figured I'd check it out on foot this time, when I could carry things home.  I did buy some things (apples, preserves, pesto, and sugary junk), but in all honesty, I could easily have skipped the trip. Sorry, Larry.

I did, however, dash across the street and climb the berm to get some pictures of the blossoming trees.

*****

Meanwhile, we're three weeks into Jim's five week bike maintenance class.  What began as a nievely simple plan to replace Gonzo's too-small handlebars quickly became a project involving a new stem as well, and, little did I know, entirely new cables.  I'd already gathered those supplies when Gonzo's rear hub exploded.  Now I was looking at two projects.  I'd need a new hub.  And new spokes, probably.  Hell, I thought, why not get red spoke nipples to match the hub?  So I ordered a bag, which will be enough for both wheels, which is fine, because the front is out of true anyway, so why not take that one apart too?

On Thursday, Jim used Gonzo to show us how to remove old cables and take off the shifters.  Now Gonzo is completely out of commission.  

I never did like the color scheme.  The frame was already scraped and dinged when I got it on eBay for $250 in 2013.  Shit, I thought, why not strip it bare, find out if it's in decent shape, and get it re-painted in metallic red with no logos?

So, when I got home today, I took everything off that I possibly could, given the meager tools that I own.  It's impressive how much dismantling can be done with two hex wrenches and a pair of locking pliers (the rack's bolts had frozen on; it was a job requiring tools in both hands).  All that's left now is the drive train and brake housing, which Jim says we'll use to demonstrate how to re-cable (but we won't fasten anything in).  The handlebars are still on, but I know how to remove the steer tube (I did that by accident two weeks ago when attempting to measure the tube's diameter).

I told Jack that I won't be making any jewelry until I have this bike-building thing out of my system.

After I'm finished with Gonzo, I want to put purple spoke nipples on Kermit's wheels.  That would look sooooooooo coooooooool...

The Trouble with Piggy

 View from the Masonic Lodge, Princeton, NJ

The trouble with Miss Piggy is that she never stays dialed in for more than a few weeks.  That I managed to go all winter without having to adjust the cables or the derailleur or something else probably has more to do with the bad weather than having gotten everything just right.

So when, last week, I lost the rear small cogs to front derailleur rub when in the front middle ring only, I was not the least bit surprised.  I was, however, annoyed.

I spent much of today's Spring Fling ride grinding away, and unable to shift into the big ring unless the chain was already on the smallest cog, dumping me into 52/11 whether I wanted to be there or not.  Dave H was much amused by my two-handed shifting antics at the top of the Sourland Mountain.

Now that I'm taking Jim's bike maintenance class, I was hoping that this would be something I could learn how to fix myself.  The first thing I did when I got back to the Masonic Temple was to find Jim.

We took a look at it, and he figured out that the derailleur was toed in too much.  He started in on adjusting it but stopped because it would require a cable adjustment.  I resigned myself to taking Piggy to Hart's.  Again.

6400+ miles, and 1000 of those are on the repair stand.

Tom is a retired bike shop owner to works for Ross now.  He's new to Miss Piggy and to my special relationship with the shop guys.  He was about to write up a repair ticket when I told him that the fix should be quick.  Then I described the problem. I think I won him over by being so specific, and he put the bike up on the repair stand.

It took about five minutes for him to make the repair, most of that time having been spent figuring out what was wrong.  The derailleur had dropped down, clockwise, just a few millimeters, which was more than enough to throw things off.  That's a new one for Miss Piggy. "I hate front derailleurs," he said.

I told him I can never keep the bike in tune for more than a few weeks at a time.  "You ride too hard," he said. "That's your problem."

"Uh-huh.  But my other two never give me any trouble."

"How is the Tommasini?"

"I love that bike."

I said, "Last night I dreamed I decided to get rid of the Cannondale, but you guys told me I wouldn't get more than $500 for it."

"You're probably right."

"I'll keep it till the frame cracks."

"Then you should get a Guru."

"I'm not sure I want any more carbon."

He showed me Ross' new Guru frame.  "Here," he said, handing it to me. At first I wasn't sure I was holding it; the frame was that light. "Five thousand dollars for the frame."

I said, "There's no beauty in carbon frames."

"They're not designed for that," he admitted.

I keep Miss Piggy because she's geared to get me up the big hills.  I can finish a tough ride and walk away from it.  She's easier on my back than the others are because of her gearing and lower weight.  But if I were forced to get rid of one of my frames, she'd be the second to go after Gonzo (and that's only because the frame is very nearly beat to shit).

Love her or hate her, Miss Piggy is mine until the frame falls apart.

Mercer High Points on a Perfect Day

18 April 2015

I decided to add extra miles to Tom's Mercer High Point ride by biking from home to the Rocky Hill ride start about 12 miles away. Sunday was going to be a non-riding day; out-of-town guests would be spending Saturday night at our place. I figured I could safely burn up all my energy on one day instead.

The weather was perfect:  mild, dry, clear, and slightly breezy.  Tom had a good sized group, with the usual Slug compliment (me, Ron, Bagel Hill Barry, and Snakehead), another Ed, and Blake (out of winter hibernation for the second time this year).

Tom's high points are loosely defined.  There are the true high points, and then there are the highest points we can reasonably get to on road bikes.  The Middlesex high point met both criteria.  Mercer would not prove to be so easy, so we tried to satisfy both parts separately.

The first high point was on Rileyville Road at Featherbed. As with Middlesex, this spot didn't look or feel particularly high up, even though we were on top of the Sourland Mountain.

Here, Tom corrals us for a group photo:

We were somewhere on the Sourland ridge when Ron realized he'd left his keys on the hood of his car.  He stopped, not sure if he should turn back. We convinced him that nobody would take his keys nor his car from where we'd parked.  "At least it gets my mind off the hills," he said.

We descended from the Sourlands and climbed to Mount Airy (cue the White Stripes' "Prickly Thorn but Sweetly Worn").  I did not take pictures of the cows.  They were facing away from us.  Instead I took pictures of other things at the top of the hill.

Tom chose Alexauken Creek Road as our route into Lambertville (cue Blind Faith's "Can't Find My Way Home").  I took my time, stopping for pictures, while the rest of the group continued on.

There's happiness on a bike, and then there are those moments of ecstasy.  This was one of those moments.

I found Snakehead stopped across from my favorite pasture.  "This road is to be savored," I said.  That's when I saw the two white horses.

We rode together, slowly, taking it all in.  Next to a stream we saw three more white horses.  "Larry will love this!"  I said, and stopped.  The horses didn't even look up.

Tom was waiting for us at the end of the road.

Rojo's wasn't crowded, for a change.  R.E.M.'s Monster album was coming through the speakers.  "We've been listening to them all day," the barista said.  "Starting from Murmur?"  I asked.  "Yep."  Not a bad playlist.

Most of us sat outside. A shaggy, wiry-haired dog and his owners poured out of a car and chatted for a few minutes.  Groups of cyclists glided past. A man holding a tray of fresh-squeezed orange juice from Big Bear next door came by to offer us samples.

The route Tom had chosen out of Lambertville is familiar to anyone who has ridden with me for a long time, but for Tom it was his first journey up Swan and Studdiford.  We regrouped at the top of Goat Hill.

Next was Unpleasant Vallley, because the true high point of Mercer County lies within the Ted Stiles* Preserve.  We weren't able to reach it on our bikes, but we did climb the gravel drive into the parking lot.

The high point is up there somewhere:

Although we hadn't reached the same altitude as we had on Rileyville Road, Tom decided to take a group picture.  I was looking over his head at the cirrus clouds and the power line when he got the photo.  He would go on to disparage my neck in his blog, as if I didn't hate my body enough already.  Thanks, pal.

Anyway, the sky was pretty:

I had about 65 miles under me when I started to feel the long-distance hypoglycemic buzz.  From where we were I could have peeled off for home from any number of intersections, but I didn't.  Tom asked, "Are you going to go with us to Rocky Hill"

"Yeeeeahhhhh," I said.

"You don't sound too happy about it."

He hadn't heard me and Snakehead discussing the reason why:  If I were to go to Rocky Hill, I'd pass Main Street in Kingston on the way home.  Iced coffee and rice pudding were what I needed.  Snakehead wanted a sandwich.  We decided to meet there after the ride.

I said, "Also, I want to see if Ron's keys are still there."

Ron said, "Ron wants to see if Ron's keys are still there."

They were.

I grabbed them.  "How much you want for these?"  He held his hand out.  "You know what we'll be asking you from now on," I said.

"I'll never live this down," he said.

A small tailwind pushed me to Kingston.  Snakehead arrived soon after.  There was no rice pudding.  I wandered around, lost, not sure what I wanted to eat.  I settled for something I'd never choose under any other circumstance:  two little cake pops.  "Sugar and fat, " I said, not sure if I'd barf them up later.  That and a small iced coffee.  Snakehead got his sandwich and a big bag of chips.  "Have some of these," he offered. "They'll help with dehydration."

We were close to finished when TEW appeared, on her way home from the ride out of Sawmill in Hamilton. She sat with us and the chips instead of going straight for an iced coffee.

This is one of the grooviest things about being a Freewheeler.  You get to be out on a glorious day, eat cake pops and chips, drink as much iced coffee as you want, and run into people you'd never have met otherwise, all the while your bike waiting patiently against a tree.

I finished the ride with 77 miles.  I didn't feel dizzy.  I didn't need a nap.  And I didn't barf up the crap I ate in Kingston either.

Instead, I set up the sofa bed for our guests, showered, ate some more, invited the Saturday night folks over to join our visitors for take-out dinner on our back porch, and waited on the front steps for people to arrive. In the end, there were six of us with far more food and beer than we needed.

We all slept in on Sunday morning.  I made coffee for everyone, and then we went to a diner for breakfast. My friends hit the road around noon, the leftover beer with them.  I went into the back yard to resume what looks to be a long-term project:  cutting down the stories-tall bamboo that is dying by degrees, looking more and more like a bad comb-over than the dense thicket it once was.

Next week, Tom's high point mission continues in Monmouth and Ocean Counties.






[*Going back to the Lost Years:  Ted Stiles was on my dissertation committee.  He was one of only two professors I met in grad school who were truly involved in land preservation.  The other was Ralph Good, who helped create the Pinelands Preserve.  Both died, the latter during my time in grad school, the former a few years after.  Anyway, there I was, during my oral exam, flailing and failing, secretly angry and disenchanted.  Someone on my committee asked a question that took me some time to come around to answering.  I noticed that Ted was rifling through voluminous papers in his wallet.  "I'm boring Ted," I said. He looked up, sheepishly. Fast forward five years or so.  I was working on the trail plan for Baldpate Mountain with some other Sierra Club members and a handful of other local conservationists.  Ted was there.  We were gathered around a huge map, our goal to convince the County not to put so many trails through the park that there would be little undisturbed forest left.  As we were working, I noticed that Ted was doing something else. He was rifling through the papers in his wallet.  "Son of a bitch!" I thought.  "This is just something he does! He wasn't trying to psych me out after all!"  As everyone was leaving, I was talking to Pat Sziber, a big name in local land preservation then and now.  At the time, she was a lab manager at Princeton University (I would later work across the hall from the lab she had only recently retired from. Small world).  I was jealous that she actually had a job there; I was still a lab tech at Penn.  I gave her the short story of my sordid career: that I'd earned a PhD in ecology, didn't want to run a lab, and was now a career technician, "a lifer," I said. Ted chuckled.  "A lifer," he repeated.  I never saw him again.]