Tom's Stupid Hilly Ride

what's left of the Volendam windmill

13 June 2015

Tom said, "Next week I'm going to do something stupid hilly."

He said this because he, along with Marc, Ron, me, and possibly Jack H, will be climing hills for four days in Virginia at the end of the month.  Towards the end of the week, he emailed us with his plan:  4800 feet of climbing in 48 miles, from Milford to the Merrill Creek reservoir.  We all said yes, even though Jack H wouldn't be able to join us at Bike Virginia after all.

I woke up on Saturday morning feeling as if I had barely slept.  I hoped the coffee I was drinking on the hour-long drive to Milford would help, but when I stumbled out of the car, I didn't feel much better.

"Good morning!"  Tom said.

"Uhhhhhhhhh."

"If you feel bad now, I can guarantee you'll feel worse at the end of the ride."

"Uhhhhhhhhh."

We had a short, flat warm-up before climbing out of the valley towards Alexandria.  I was off the back by enough to be noticed but not to make them wait for too long. My goal was not to feel any worse than I did when I woke up.

"I think I need a week off the bike," I said.  I haven't had a break since November.

I said to Ron, "If Tom doesn't mind my going at 4.5 miles an hour up the hills, I got this."

It took me ten miles to shake it off.

I'm reconstructing the route from memory.  I'll link to the real thing when I can.

Here's the view from the top of Mountain Road in Pohatcong:

 Mountain Road at Cemetery Road, Pohatcong

We had a brief flat stretch along the Delaware River west of Pohatcong near Carpentersville.  We were riding between the river and an old rail line.  I stopped to look at a dilapidated something:

We thought it might have been an older railroad trestle. There appears to be an old road up high on the northern side.  Maybe there were bears in the tunnels. 

This is the view from Greenwich Church Road, looking southwest.  We were southwest of Stewartsville.

We turned right onto Beatty's Road and I took this one: 

There would be three monster ascents on this ride, all of them after our rest stop at 20 miles.  Because the Bloomsbury general store is no more, we were headed to the one general store in Stewartsville, a few miles away from the bottom of the first monster.

The store was closed.  Like, forever closed.  

We considered eating and drinking whatever we had on us. Tom was sure that the visitor's center at the reservoir would be open.  We could get water there.

I asked, "What if it's not?"

Marc said, "It's a reservior."

Well, yes, but, no.

I have a nifty smartphone app called "Around Me." I searched for "coffee shops," because of course I did. Two miles away, in the directon opposite the planned route, were a Dunkin Donuts and a Starbucks.  Tom liked the idea.  "I could use some Gatorade and some real food," he said.

So, off we went, towards Route 22, which is a road nobody really wants to ride on.  Just before the intersection, we saw a shopping center and went in.  There was an open pizzaria and we stopped there.

Jack H asked me how I was feeling.  "Better," I said.

"You didn't look so good when you got out of the car this morning."

Great.  I wolfed down the PB&J I'd brought with me.

We doubled back, now having added four miles to our route.

Montana Road leads to the Merill Creek reservoir.  The first time I climbed it, on Kermit, I bonked within view of the top. The next two times I was on Miss Piggy and made it up just fine.  Today, Tom warned us that we'd be ascending  600 feet in three miles.

I returned to 4.5 mph mode. The road runs along a creek. I listened to the water next to me and to Stevie Wonder's "I Wish" in my head as I turtled along in my granny gear.

After two miles I saw the top.  The road might be three miles, but the climb is two.  This was the easiest time I'd had on Montana Road.  The rest stop and my crazy-slow speed had helped.

We regrouped at the intersection of Richline Road:

A few minutes later we were at the reservoir:

Jack H said, "Isn't it amazing how you forget about the pain as soon as it's over?"

Tom told us about an article he'd read that reported on a study on perceived pain.  Patients undergoing colonoscoipes, he told us, were asked about the pain they experienced towards the end of the procedure, regardless of the pain they'd felt earlier.  Those who had pain (only?) at the end remembered the entire procedure as painful; those who didn't reported the entire thing as painless.  (As a scientist, I'm not going to comment on the reliability of this study or of the media's interpretation of it, because I haven't read it.  Suffice to say, these sorts of things get distorted and misinterpreted with each iteration of reporting.  But, for the sake of today's narrative, we'll take it as it was relayed to us.)

I said, "Like childbirth.  Women forget the pain."

Tom then said somehing that will mar my view of the reservoir forever, because I was taking a picture at the time.  If you want your view marred forever as well, scroll to the bottom of this post to read what he said.  If you prefer the beauty unmarred, here's one more picture:

As we left the reservoir, one of our number had a cramp.  We fed him.

One big ascent down, two to go, but first Tom gave us a swooping descent down Millbrook Road.  We crossed Route 57 and headed towards Asbury.  I've been up this hill a handful of times.  It's never steep, but it's long, and, unlike Montana, not much in the shade.

I'm not fast by any stretch of the imagination.  I am, however, consistent.  As other riders tire, I plod along at the same old speed.  Now, people were beginning to tire and I was no longer trailing.  I saw one of our number in my rearview mirror; he was stepping off his bike.  I called up the line that there was some trouble. Tom stopped at a bend in the hill to wait while the rest of us went on.

We waited long enough that I began to worry.  I checked a map to see if I knew where we were well enough to get us home.  Surprisingly, I did.  I called Tom.  He didn't answer, which was a good sign, and, as I was packing up, he came coasting past, calling "Straight ahead!"

I'm not sure where we were when I took this picture:

Next up would be Tunnel Road, a long, gentle climb out of Bloomsbury.  Tom opted for Asbury-West Portal Road instead of the busier Asbury-Bloomsbury Road, which made me happy, because I hadn't been there before. Towards the end of it, we lost our cramping rider again.

Two of us waited by a tiny farm market.

I had time again to check a map and call Tom.  He didn't answer this time either, and a few minutes later he and our fourth rider appeared.  The cramping rider was finished, he told us.  He'd carpooled up with Tom, who would be coming back to get him.

We passed the spot on Tunnel Road where we'd seen the black bear, and zipped down Sweet Hollow past the spot where we'd waded across the stream.  All told, we descended nearly 1000 feet in 7 miles.

I groaned as I dismounted.

"By the way," Tom said, "I lied about the ascent. It was closer to 5200 feet."

"Why?" I asked.

"I didn't want to scare anyone off,"  he said.

"You wouln't have."  We're Tom's Insane Bike Posse, after all.

Jack H asked me, "Are you feeling any better now?"

"The exhaustion and nausea are gone," I said, "But now everything hurts.  I'm used to this kind of pain, though."

It was 2:30. With a 5:05 train from Trenton to DC, I had no time to spare.  An hour later I was home, and half an hour after that I called for a taxi to the train station.  "I'll be there in ten minutes," the driver said.  I was ready in 5.

I waited on my front steps for 15 more minutes.  It was now closing in on 4:30. I tried to log into my Amtrak app to find out if the train was on time.  I was unable to connect.

I called the driver.  No answer.  I left a message that if I didn't hear back I'd have to call someone else.  At this point I was texting Jack about taxi etiquitte.  I called the second company on Jack's favorite cab list.  The man who answered said, "I'm your neighbor.  I'll be there in seven or eight minutes."

I don't know why I didn't call him in the first place.  He's lived around the corner longer than we've lived in our house.  He arrived when he said he would, and we had a good time chatting all the way to the train station. He got me there with fifteen minutes to spare.

As soon as I stepped inside I looked at the departrues board. The train was listed as 25 minutes late.  Of course.  Seconds after that, I received a text from Amtrak telling me the same thing, but cautioning me that I should be ready half an hour early in any case, because trains can make up time en route.

This one got to Trenton more than half an hour late, but we arrived in DC only 18 minutes behind schedule. Despite having eaten a second PB&J, I was ravenous and dizzy every time I stood up.  This dizziness thing happens to me every summer.  When it happens every time I stand up, it's a sure sign that I need a week away from exercise.

Jack met me at the station and we walked past the Supreme Court on the way to the house.  I wanted to get a picture of the guard leaning against the wall on the far left.  It didn't come out the way I wanted it to, but at least you can see the building.

When I woke this morning after 8.5 hours of sleep, I still felt completely exhausted.  I still got dizzy when I stood up.  Two cups of coffee felt like not much at all.  As Cheryl is fond of saying, "Listen to your body." Time for some time off.

It's past noon and we're still in the house.  We'll get out soon, perhaps to the Smithsonian's modern art museum, or to the Newseum (recommended by several people recently).  The heat index will be close to 100 degrees today.

*****

Now, as promised, the thing Tom said about childbirth while I was taking a picture of Merill Creek reservoir. You've been warned.

"I just squeezed a small human being out of my hoochie-coochie!"

You're welcome.