Not the Worst Thing About Today's Ride
4 April 2015
Something always happens on the Chocolate Bunny Ride, so much so that in its third year Cheryl and I decided that anyone who finishes gets a chocolate bunny.
It's a longish ride for this early in the season, and it's deceptively difficult for a route that climbs the Sourland Mountain only once, then avoids it for the return trip.
The first time Cheryl and I did the ride it was just the two of us, with me on a sprained ankle. The second time, two people turned back after 10 miles, and a third bonked completely with fewer than 10 miles left to go. In subsequent years there were complaints about the wind and the traffic. We soldiered on nonetheless, sticking to the same course, more or less, no matter the wind nor the temperature. These days, people know the perils of the Chocolate Bunny Ride. They show up anyway.
This year, in an unusual moment of uncharacteristic goodwill, I rerouted the return trip to avoid being out in open fields with the wind blowing at a steady 24 mph and gusting into the mid-30s. I am fond of my Slugs, after all. Still, it was going to be tough going today no matter what.
I received an early morning email from Andreas, a visiting Swede capable of far more than the customary Slug pace. He promised to behave. He and Jim showed up at my door for the extra miles.
We fought the wind all the way to Pennington, where 6 more signed on. John K, Bagel Hill Barry, and Ron S rounded out the regular Slug roster. Celeste and Ron A, who are Sometimes Slugs, were also there, as was Fran (all the way from Connecticut). That made 9 of us, a large group for a day like this. It must have been the promise of candy that brought them out.
John got a bunny straight away for mishearing "new potholes" for " new pot," and Andreas earned one when he called out, "It's the Easter Bunny!" as we passed a roadkill rabbit.
The Hell of Hunterdon ride was also today. We came upon a lost soul who thought he might have missed a turn. He hadn't, but he earned himself some chocolate anyway. So did John, by proclaiming,as I pored over the fellow's cue sheet, that we were visiting the Stations of the Bike (this marks the first time I've chucked a piece of candy across the street).
The hills shielded us from the wind, more or less, although we did have to lean about 15 degrees sideways on one tree-lined stretch of Long Hill.
By the way, this is what a pipeline right-of-way looks like. This one is the Transco line that cuts across the Sourland Mountain in East Amwell. Imagine many more scars like this one if PennEast gets its way:
The descent from the top of Long Hill to Wertsville Road was, well, interesting. I can't have been the only one to have been hugging the brakes.
But then we were finished with the headwinds for a while. From Wertsville to our rest stop near Route 206, the tailwind pushed us along Amwell Road at something near an A pace.
We stopped at the Bagel Bistro, of course, where one can still order a roast bee sandwich from the overhead menu. "We have to fix that," admitted one employee, who seemed fond of the missing f. There was some interest in the "Iris" coffee as well, until one of the workers noticed and chalked in the missing h on the eye-level blackboard.
Then we were off again, eastward on Amwell Road, heading for the canal. There was a light that half the group got caught at, so I snapped a picture of the sky while we waited. Notice how much the tree is bending in the wind.
We were just through another light, three of us a little in front of the main group, when I heard shouting. "Flat!" I called out, because it's flat tire season. But when I turned around to look, what I saw looked worse than that.
Everybody's bike is on the grass. There's a car in front of them. Fran is running. Someone in red is on the grass on his side.
He rolls over and sits up, the left side of his face covered in blood.
It's Jim.
He'd hit something in the road, and then his head on the way down.
I dig out my bandanna. Jim is already wrapping his around his head. He's mobile. He's talking. He's coherent enough to give John two phone numbers for The Excellent Wife. She doesn't pick up. Andreas wets my bandanna. Fran dabs Jim's face with it. There's blood on his glasses, Jackson Pollock style.
He stands up. He says he's okay. "My wrist hurts, and my shoulder," he says, but he can move both.
We look at his bike. The front wheel has a dent in the rim. The left shifter is bashed in. He can't ride even if he thinks he can.
A cop shows up. We want him to take Jim and his bike to the hospital, or home. "I can't," the cop says. "I can't fit him and his bike." Really? It's an SUV. "I also can't leave Hillsborough."
He speaks into his radio. The rest of us are trying to figure out whose spouse, relative, or whatever lives the closest to where we are, nobody but me really knowing where we are.
Jim tries to call TEW again, but his hands are shaking.
An ambulance pulls in behind the police car. A paramedic asks Jim to fill her in. "I'm okay," he says, "A little head-achey, but if you want to give me a mental assessment, please do."
"What's your name?"
"Jim Brittain."
"What's your address?"
He answers with slight hesitation.
"Who's the president?"
A long pause. "Oh, Jesus!"
"No," the paramedic says, touching Jim's arm. "He only wishes he were. Try again."
Another pause. "Obama!"
"What month is this?"
"It's...It's...I don't know."
This is an unfair question. It's only just April, but it feels like March and we're riding as if it were February.
"Maybe I should go to the hospital," Jim says. They take him into the ambulance and close the door. The rest of us aren't going anywhere. We're trying to figure out what happened. The best we can guess is that he might have swerved to miss the grate and hit the rut instead, jamming his front wheel. "He did do an endo," Ron A says.
Andreas knocks on the ambulance door. It opens. Jim is sitting inside with the paramedics. "Do you want me to stay with you?" I ask him.
"No," he says. "I'm okay." The paramedic explains that she's just getting him calmed down and assessing the situation. The door closes again. I use John K's phone (because he has it out and TEW's numbers already dialed in) to text her that Jim has crashed and okay.
Meanwhile, a couple of the guys have taken the wheels off of Jim's bike and loaded it into the rear of the police car. The cop gives me his card with the station address on it.
Time does that weird thing it does when a friend is bleeding. I'm shivering, but I don't feel cold.
The ambulance door opens and Jim pops out. "The Excellent Wife is coming to get me," he says. "Where's a good place to go that she can find?" Back to the Bagel Bistro. He assures us he'll be fine waiting there. I'm not sure whether I should stay with him or lead the rest of the Slugs to safety. I decide that I need to lead. Nobody knows where we are. He climbs into the police car and they drive away.
We were at times quiet and at times jitter-chatty on the canal. We had a tailwind, though a few of our number were beginning to lag.
This always happens, and I have yet to figure out why.
The customary Chocolate Bunny route leaves the canal at Griggstown and goes straight west through open fields almost all the way to Montgomery. Today we stayed on the canal to the end of Canal Road, then hid ourselves between the trees of Cherry Valley, Cherry Hill, Drake's Corner, and Province Line.
We would get spread out, regroup, and get spread out again. I thought I had everyone when we stopped to wait at the intersection of Cherry Valley and Carter Road. From here it would be a straight shot back to Pennington. It took more than one light cycle to get everyone together again.
After that, it was all tailwind, which was a decent reward.
But I didn't see Ron S or Barry, and I could have sworn they'd been with us at the light. At Titus Mill I sent everyone else on and waited. I backtracked a bit.
I called Jim.
"I'm home," he said. "I got a look at myself in the mirror. I look like a zombie."
"I look forward to your blog."
"I'm not sure what I'll say," he replied.
After I hung up, there was still no sign of Ron or Barry. I wondered if they'd gone ahead when the light had changed, not stayed with the group. They were probably back at the parking lot already. I turned around. Barry doesn't have a cell phone. If Ron were hurt, I'd never know. Shit.
But my second hunch was the correct one: they'd gone ahead of us. By the time I got back to the lot, the rest of the crew was worrying about me.
I reported in on Jim and dumped bunnies into people's hands. "That's it for the Chocolate Bunny Ride," I said. "I'm not leading it again." I'd said that at least twice already since Amwell Road. Fran gave me a disappointed look.
"I have something for you," she said. It was a brilliant purple bunny, all the way from a specialty chocolate shop in Manchester, Connecticut. I did what I did last year when Cheryl gave me the Golden Bunny Award: I took a picture.
Then I ate the last two chocolate bunnies.
Fran said, "You know, if my Ron had been here, there would have been three Rons on this ride. It would have been --" and here, John chimed in, "-- the Do Ron Ron Ron Ride!"
I groaned. "I'm out of bunnies!"
The tailwind pushed me and Andreas home.
Jim's car was still parked across the street. I wondered when he'd be able to drive it. I wondered when he'd want to ride a bike again.
"I'm never leading the Chocolate Bunny Ride again," I told Jack when I got inside.
"You know the route has nothing to do with it," he said.
I'm not so sure. Something always happens on the Chocolate Bunny Ride.
I took a picture of the bloody bandanna,
and filled in the Incident Report:
Meanwhile, Jim managed to post something. I'm going to have some explaining to do on Winter Larry's ride tomorrow.
Jim just called. He and TEW are on their way over to get his car. I have extra chocolate bunnies. He's going home with all of them, like it or not.
Update: Jim went for an x-ray and came home with a brace and stitches.
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