#40: Belmar Century

Manasquan Reservoir 

 May 2015

I've lost track of how many times I've been to Belmar.  I've lost track of how many of those times I've started from home to turn the trip into a century.  I've lost track of how many times I've done the trip as an off-the-books excursion with selected trustworthy Slugs.

Yesterday, though, was the first time I've led the ride as officially sanctioned by the Freewheelers. I also did something today that is on the list of Things One Must Not Do, which was test a new saddle on a 100-mile ride.  I'm happy to report that my butt, as well as all of the riders, made it back in one piece, if not a wee tad sore.

When I woke up, the ground was wet, but the chance of rain was only 20%.  Things had begun to dry out when Snakehead Ed and Jim arrived.  Both were early, so that Jim could help Ed with his too-fat tires.  Ed has been obsessed lately with disc brakes and 28 mm tires, neither of which, in my irrelevant opinion, belong on road bikes.  I had to show both of them Gonzo's new paint (more on that later), and both had their turn chatting with Jack, who was, surprisingly, awake and downstairs. So we left the house almost ten minutes later than I had planned to leave; at least I wasn't the last one ready.

As soon as we pushed off, Ed expressed delight at the soft ride of his fat tires — "Escalades," he called them. [Jack just taught me how to make an em-dash! Nerd squeal!]

We were riding at the dew point. The air was holding as much water as it could without actually raining.  Instead, we pedaled through something less than mist and more than fog. When we picked up Marc at Mercer County Park, we were already damp.

The two riders who had planned to meet us at Etra Park had both bailed in the last 12 hours.  I figured nobody would be there, but we found JeffX seated patiently on the curb.  We had made up some time, so we were only a few minutes late.

I was using a cue sheet that Joe and I had used in 2012.  I had studied it on Friday evening, so I was relatively sure of where we were going. Still, I sent the route to Jim, Ed, and Marc just in case.  They have GPS.  I don't.

Route 571 takes a sharp turn south of Hightstown.  I was only sightly behind JeffX and Ed when the turn came.  I hollered out to them but they didn't hear me. They were too busy talking.

At the beginning of all of my rides, as part of my spiel, I always say, "If you ride ahead you're on your own."  JeffX and Ed were now well ahead. My rule is tempered by how much I like the people off the front. I could have kept going, but I didn't.  It took them a couple of minutes to figure out what had happened.

We stopped for a water break at the MinitStop in Jackson.  Ed emerged with chocolates that he forced upon us.

JeffX said something about Marc's relative silence.  "He doesn't say much," I explained.  "But when he does," Jim added, "It's choice."  As if on cue, Marc handed me a rhinestone-encrusted, fake-gold hoop earring he'd just found on the ground. "You want this?" he asked.

"Bling!"  I hooked it into my jersey.

Jim and I complained about feeling cold when we started out again.  The air was still slightly chilly and our clothes sill slightly damp.  It took me a few miles to warm up again.

Now nearly 40 miles into the ride, I felt confident that the new saddle was going to work out.  If I could be comfortable even with wet shorts, this would be a good sign.

After we crossed Route 9 was when the mist turned to real rain.  It never lasted more than a minute or two, but it tended to happen as soon as we had dried out from the last one.

Most of my trips to Belmar have passed the Manasquan Reservoir.  I've rarely, if ever, stopped for pictures.  Today I didn't even bring my camera (I needed the pocket space for food), but when we got to the water I had to call out "Picture!" and reach for my phone.

On Belmar Boulevard, which goes on for miles before getting anywhere close to Belmar, the roads were wet.  I praised our lateness; had we been on time, we'd have been soaked.

As we approached the ocean, we could smell the beach, but we couldn't see the water.   This was not a beach day.

We had the entire outdoor seating area to ourselves.  I moved the bling from my jersey to around Kermit's neck. We took our time.  Ed, Jim, and Marc got steak sandwiches.  JeffX (home-made granola) and I (PB&J) looked over in amazement.  "I don't know how they eat those things," he said.

"Me neither," I said, and added that it doesn't always work out so well.

A chilly breeze was coming at us from the ocean.  Jim groaned when we started up again.  Now that he's had a big birthday, he's been playing it up.

People who ride centuries with me know that I sometimes hit a wall at 70 miles.  I've learned how to stave it off by eating something, even if I'm not hungry, at 65 miles.  Still, Jim stated that I was not allowed to make any decisions between 70 and 80 miles.  He was lucky that I heard his front tire slowly go flat at 69.2 miles, although even then he didn't believe me at first.

We were somewhere in Freehold at the time, stopped next to a creek I'd never noticed before:

I looked back to see if Kermit was still wearing his bling.  It was gone, and I hadn't thought to take a picture.

A rare tailwind pushed us home.  Marc (now having completed his fourth century in six weeks or so, contemplating a 250-miler next weekend, yet sill reluctant to call himself a randonneur) peeled off in Windsor.

South of Mercer County Park, Jim stopped to refuel.  This led to an assessment of my new saddle.  Much better, but I need to move it back by a few millimeters. This led to a lesson for Ed on how some seat posts work. (Ed thought I could make the adjustment on the road; this is something best left to a back porch and short trips around the block).

The last of Cheryl's maple syrup jelly beans did Jim a world of good.  A burst of energy had him leading me and Ed through the park and back home.  Despite a large discrepancy in our distances and times (I blame his old Garmin), we finished with over 100 miles and an honest B pace, as advertised.

 My butt was a little sore, my legs tight. I was ravenous. We went out to dinner with 6 other people, and I ate everything on my plate, plus a snack when we got home.  Recovery from the season's first century is always the longest century recovery. After my first century of the season, I take the next day off.  I do this:

I'm scheduled to lead a ride a week from now, on Sunday, the day after Tom's next high point ride. His plan is to cover Burlington and Ocean Counties, starting from Bruno's in Allentown.  Depending on his route and rest stops, I might start from home to get in another century.  If I do this, my scheduled ride will be relatively easy, if I lead it at all.  It depends on how well I can toughen up in one week's time.  I'm no Marc, after all.  Stay tuned.