Ward Road, Bordentown
25 May 2015
I: Hill Training
On Friday, Jack left for 5 weeks in DC. When all of his traveling fellowships are over, he'll have been away for nearly five months out of twelve. I suck at being alone, which is to say that, even though I might be very good at filling the time, I don't enjoy rattling around inside my own head. That he left on the eve of a three-day weekend didn't help matters either. Long story short, I sunk uncharacteristically low on Friday evening. As tough as I seem and want to be, there are times when biochemistry takes over.
Buddies are there with you in the good times; friends are there for you when things are bad; and the FreeWheelers always have something going on when the weather is good.
Saturday was an off-the-books ride concocted by Tom to get us ready for the hills of Bike Virginia. It was also a test of Miss Piggy's latest repair to end all repairs (a new washer to replace a stripped one between the front derailleur and the braze-on).
I'm not used to the bike not making any noise.
We started at Bulls Island and warmed up on Route 29. I was surprised, and relieved, when Tom didn't put us on Federal Twist. Instead we went down to Lower Creek, which is one of my favorite roads. I might have to take it off the list, though, because it did not fare well over the winter.
We went under the Green Sergeants covered bridge and onto Upper Creek, where I felt obligated to point out the long driveway leading to the glass studio where I spent a weekend in February. I was right back then when I told the instructor that, come the good weather, glass blowing would be far from my mind.
Instead, bike repair has taken up residency; I'm not even making jewelry. Gonzo is a little bit back together again, Ross having installed the new bottom bracket and headset. For my birthday, Jack and Jim colluded to get me a repair stand and some specialty tools. I have everything I need to start building the rear wheel, too. My goal is to have the wheel built by the time Jack returns.
Anyway, we rode up on the ridge for a while before slightly descending and then re-ascending near the Alexandria airport. We were south of it, on Schoolhouse, when we saw half a dozen people parachuting down, floating in the wind. We talked about the relative degrees to which we would be shitting ourselves were we the ones up there. "I like being on the ground," I said.
Tom took us up Rick Road and then the nasty grade on Hartpence just so that we could coast down Hickory Corner. We dropped into Milford by way of 519. Of course, we had to walk across the bridge. Of course, I had to take a couple of pictures.
I've been buying coffee online from Homestead Coffee Roasters because as often as I buy from them it's too far to drive. A few weeks ago I had a long email conversation with Mike, one of the roasters. He'd run out of the estate Sumatran and wouldn't be able to get more, which is a pity because it was really good. He sent me a couple of other single origin beans to try instead. So when we got to Homestead and I saw him in the store, I had to thank him for his efforts. That led to him leading me to the roastery next door to the general store.
He offered me a sample of cold-pressed Papua New Guinea beans that he'd run through compressed gas and served from a tap.
It tastes like cold coffee and seltzer water. Because that's what it is. I pass no more judgment than that.
Often there's a kitty wandering about.
Over our snacks, Tom, Marc, Ron, and I began discussing the logistics of our drive to Virginia. Four people, four bikes, at least four suitcases, and two hotels make for some interesting planning. I made it worse by suggesting that, since Jack's fellowship ends the day we return, I might as well swing by DC to pick him up. Tom didn't seem fazed by this.
He also proposed stopping to ride on Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park, halfway to Abingdon, Virginia.
With three days of climbing in mind, we got back on our bikes and started up Bridgeton Hill Road. There's a hairpin turn not far from the bottom. This was made far more interesting by traffic in both directions, a rut in the road wider than a car tire and as long as a pickup truck, and a rider in front of me who ran out of gears. I managed to get past him, but Jim didn't. I heard him swear and, in my rearview mirror, saw him stop on the other side of the road. I called ahead that there was trouble, but when I looked behind again I saw that Jim was back on his bike. Spinning away in the granny gear as I was, it didn't take long for Jim to catch up to me. "What happened back there?"
"We're not going to talk about it."
"Is everything okay?"
"We're not going to talk about it."
Not until I read Jim's account a day later did I learn what happened.
We wound our way up and down to Ralph Stover State Park. We're allowed to ride across this bridge...
...but not the one leading back to Bulls Island.
I stopped at Hart's on the way home. I needed to adjust Miss Piggy's saddle position (because I didn't own a torque wrench) and to pick up Gonzo. Although the store was moderately busy, Ross took time to talk with me about tools and wheel building. He also shared some sad news about someone Cheryl and I used to ride with back in the day. Godspeed, Richie.
II: Saturday Night
After lunch, a shower, and a few chores, I headed out to the porch to put together the repair stand. It took me far longer than I expected it to, hampered further still because I was texting Dale and Terry C the whole while. I finally got it together and settled down to read Roger Musson's Professional Guide to Wheel Building, which Jim instructed me to read before getting anywhere near my new wheel components. When it began to get dark, I decamped to a room upstairs -- the room where my beadwork glowers at me for ignoring it -- to continue reading. Loneliness and hunger were setting in, and I texted Jack to call me whenever. Just then, a text arrived from Dale, asking if she could stop by to see the repair stand "like, now." When I got to the front door, Dale and Sean were on their bikes in my driveway.
We ended up sitting out back, the frame on the table, until it occurred to us that none had eaten dinner. We went back to their house so that they could change, and wound up at the nearest diner. Salad bar and sweet potato fries for dinner at 10:00 p.m.
III: No Energy for Cranbury
Bike Virginia will be three days of hard riding, so I was prepared to go hard in Cranbury on Sunday and long on Memorial Day. I figured the usual passel of Fastboys would be out in force. They weren't, but I was off the back anyway. I didn't want to blow myself out and leave nothing for tomorrow. I don't recover quickly enough for that.
Larry saw that I was lollygagging and pulled in front of me. He reached out his hand and said, "You're tired. Draft behind me."
I feigned exhaustion by groaning.
"Draft behind me. Save something for Jack."
"He's in DC."
"Oh. In that case, you can pull me."
So I did. For, like, ten seconds.
The rest stop in New Egypt helped me recover, and I dutifully took a pull on Old York Road. We had a tailwind; it felt like cheating.
IV: More Tools
The tools that Jack gave me were a good start, but I needed more. I had a list. I was on a mission. For the second time this weekend, I found myself conforming to a stereotype I loathe: the weak girl. The fellow minding the tool section was helpful to a point; he helped me pick out a drill. But when it came to the torque wrench, he merely gestured, said, "It's expensive," and trundled off. I didn't let that stop me. I figured it out, and got a bunch of other tools too, many sorely needed to round out the meager household collection.
The woman who rung me up was impressed. "These are some serious tools! What are you building?"
"A bike."
"Is your husband helping you?" Stereotypes.
"He heckles from the sidelines." So much for stereotypes.
She did redeem herself when she asked if I had brothers, found out that I came by my tomboyishness naturally, and admitted that she hates dresses. So do I. "Instant objectifictaion," I said.
Still, I sent a list of what I'd bought to Jim and Jack so that they could advise and mock me. In the end, I did pretty well. I might only need to return the SAE fittings for the torque wrench because most bike parts are metric; and the wrench might not get up to the torque I'd need to remove a bottom bracket or a cassette. I can deal with that later, I guess.
I sat in bed with the wheel building book. I'd understood everything so far, but I got stuck trying to grasp the difference between leading and trailing spokes. I read the section again. I tried to remember what Jim had taught us in class. I stared at the illustration some more. I gave up and went to sleep.
V: The Memorial Day Mutiny
It's an open secret that a handful of us don't like the crowds of All-Paces rides. Sometimes we plan our own mutiny ride from somewhere else. Sometimes I agree to lead a small group, putting a cap on the number of riders at twelve. Sometimes a few of us conspire to start with a group and then politely break off with a few people in tow, which is what Tom and I figured we'd do today.
I biked to the park, where Jim found me and handed me a sock full of wheel building tools.
There were so many B riders that two groups formed. One leader goes more slowly than I like. The other is new to the club and was leading for the first time, bless his crazy head. He's also volunteered to lead the Sunday B out of Cranbury, so I know for sure he's crazy, but bless him for taking that on, too. The new leader's group was smaller, but looked faster. Tom and I chose the smaller group. I figured I'd get dropped if we didn't mutiny first.
The plan was to head north toward Cranbury. We got word that Gordon Road was closed. I wondered how closed it was, and if we could try to get through.
We started off slowly, heading east through the park then doubling back. We left the park on Hughes Drive, where Marc somehow managed to run over a rusty, 1-inch screw in such a way that it embedded itself completely in his tire. I offered up a boot for the hole, but I'm pretty sure the tire is going to need a tetanus shot.
While Marc fixed his tire, I talked with Ken G, whom I haven't seen for a couple of years. "I saw you last week," he said, when he was with his son at a lacrosse game out in the flatlands. "You were with a few other people. I knew it was you. I saw the braid and the frog."
I took the screw so that I could get a better picture of it later:
When we turned onto Old Trenton Road I found myself near the front. Tom and Marc were in back somewhere. I didn't push to stay up front; I kept my pace and watched as rider after rider passed me until I was back with Tom.
"I think it's time to break off," Tom said. "Wanna go to Gordon Road?"
"Yeah!"
"I'm staying with the group," Marc said.
A mutiny of two is still a mutiny, I guess.
Gordon Road has been obliterated from just east of 130 past Bresnahan even. What's there now is hard-packed dirt and gravel rippled with construction tire tracks. Another McMansion farm is springing up and the road is being realigned. That we got through the mess at all is because we've both been mountain biking and there's been no significant rain for a while. Write off Gordon Road for the rest of the summer.
We decided to stop at the tiny strip mall on Ward Road in Bordentown. At 28 miles, one of my water bottles was empty. The deli was open and the clerk biker-friendly.
Even though we were maybe half a mile east of where Routes 130 and 206 come together, and next to a massive high school on the other side, our view from the picnic table was this:
On Windsor Road at 130 we caught up with Dennis W's group. We rode back with them, Tom turning for home on South Lane. At the park entrance I passed someone who looked vaguely familiar, someone I hadn't seen in years. It was Ben P, who used to ride with me in the hills (kicking my ass) until he moved to New Egypt.
He hadn't been sure it was me at first, he said, but then he saw my braid and the frog.
Some of the riders we'd ditched were still in the lot when I got back. Despite our trek through the dirt, a few of them wished they'd gone with us instead. The new leader, unfamiliar with the local roads, had them on too many busy streets. "Where'd you go?" I asked.
"If there was a road with a double yellow line, we were on it."
The main attraction for me at the end of the ride was Ben's BMW Electronaut, a fully battery-powered car. I asked to see under the hood. All that's there is the wiper fluid reservoir and a storage bin for extra power cords. The battery is under the chassis. The engine is in the rear. Chris and I spent time talking with him until everyone else had left the parking lot.
VI: I Should Be Reading About Wheels, But...
I'm blogging instead, and now it's time to head out with some friends for dinner. As long as I keep one step ahead of the crazy I'll be able to handle being on my own.
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