#42: Crowded

16th Street Beach, Belmar, NJ

26 July 2015

I'm used to leading half a dozen people.  When the crowd gets up around ten, I start to get nervous. There were eleven of us en route to Belmar yesterday.

Jack H and I left from my house.  He'd biked in from home. This would put him well over a century, considering I had 103 miles planned from my house.

We picked up Tom at Mercer County Park.  It was he who had hatched the idea of going to Belmar today, instead of climbing up to another high point or two.  His wife was already at the beach, so he would meet her there.

I knew that Lynne and Bill would meet us at Etra Lake Park.  I wasn't sure about Cheryl or Ron, but there they were, along with a different Jim (who had contacted me earlier in the week).  Joe made it, but Dave called in sick.

I was surprised to see Al L; I didn't think he was into distance.  Barry was there too.  

Bruce and Herb were in the crowd, which confused me even more, because neither of them is into riding at our pace. They were there for another Belmar ride that would start half an hour after ours. Bruce took a peek at my cue sheet. He didn't want our groups to overlap; that would be a mess.  Our route out would be his route back, so we were safe.

The Hill Slugs haven't gone to Belmar during peak season in a long time.  I'd forgotten how much shore traffic there can be on a perfectly sunny, dry, not-too-hot day in July.

Barry and Al both have a tendency to ride towards the middle of the road.  At an intersection on a busy stretch, I asked them to get in so that I could see the rest of the group in my mirror.  "If you can't do that," I said, "Ride in the front or in the back."  Al got up front.  Barry tucked in behind me, at least for a few miles, before drifting out again.

Tom had helped me work the route so that we'd come in along the shoreline from the south.  To do that, though, we wound up first in traffic, then on a side road that was one third pothole, and then back in traffic through Sea Girt.  It's worth making the trip once in a while, though, if for no other reason than to gawk at the massive mansions in Spring Lake.  Forget about seeing the beach from the road, though.  That's all walled off from anyone lower than two stories up.

I managed to get a picture when the boardwalk wasn't full of people.  

We had a tailwind for the first half of the route home, but people were starting to run out of energy. At each intersection, it was taking longer and longer to bring everyone together again.

We were on Georgia Road, a handful of miles away from our final rest stop, when Bill, who was behind me, called out a hole.  We heard a crash.  We turned around.

Al was on his side, reaching for his glasses.  Not until we got within ten feet of him did we see that Jack was down too.  They were both in the same position, as if on a tandem, lying on their left sides, under their bikes.

My first question is always, "What happened?"  I want to get the story before there's chance for any spin.  Al said, "Barry swerved. I hit him."  Barry was standing a few feet away.  Jack got out from under his bike, and we untangled it from Al's.  Then we got Al's bike off of him and he stood up. Both had road rash on their left elbows and left shins.  Both had jerseys with new vent holes. Both had perfectly functioning bikes.  I doused their wounds from my water bottle while Ron got out some alcohol wipes.  I said to Barry, "You're in the back from now on."  I said it loudly and forcefully so that everyone could hear me.  Then I went back to paying attention to Jack and Al.  It looked like the two of them would be okay, so we started to get ourselves together again.  I heard Barry cursing to Bill:  "Why the fuck does everyone blame me?  I had nothing to do with it!"  Bill masterfully calmed him down.  I told Jack and Al to ride up front where I could keep an eye on them.  "We're injured and she wants us to pull," Jack said with a grin. They didn't ride in front of me, but I kept them in my sight.  Barry didn't ride at the back as I'd told him to.

The rest stop, in Freehold, is only about ten miles from Etra Park, but we took our time there.  We were at a Dunkin Donuts; Cheryl asked the manager for a first aid kit. Al got himself some ice, and Barry showed him how to wrap it in a bandanna.  Al kept it on his arm until the ice was half melted.

The group splintered again before half of us were out of the parking lot.  Barry, Al, Jack, and a handful of others went off the front, while I waited for those who were too pooped to push. When there were no more turns to make, I rode ahead to try to catch up to the lead group, hoping I could get everyone in sight.  That didn't happen, although we all got back to the park within a few minutes of each other.

Then, Jack and I rode back towards my house.  We took a route that Jack knew, one that avoided the small hills in the park.  The distance ended up being the same. Despite his road rash, Jack chose the longer way back to his house from mine.  He'd finish the day with something in the neighborhood of 115 miles.

*****

Late last night I came to a decision that will become final as soon as I run it by those who get to decide if I'm within my rights to make it.

This morning I emailed Jack and Al.  Jack wrote back that he was fine.  He'd even gone on a 22-mile recovery ride.  Al, still sore, figures he's stuck with a couple of pulled muscles that will take him six weeks to heal.