Summer Winter Roads and Cable Crud

Brookville Hollow Road

24 July 2016

(It's my blog and I'll exaggerate if I want to.)

For three Saturdays of the last four, I've been the designated driver for an evening of drunken gluttony. I watch as others order far too much food and command the restaurant's entire supply of wine glasses. I end up with half a plate of carrots, half a glass of wine, paying twice what I owe, and ferrying a carful of loudness away from the restaurant. I wake up in a mood that only a bike ride can cure.

(Right. Rant finished.)

John K was planning a recovery ride out of Hopewell for 8:45 Sunday morning. I wasn't sure I'd have the legs or the sleep for it, but I rolled out of bed at 7:00 a.m. anyway. I got to the start seconds before John. A friend of his, Jonas, was already there, midway through his own ride, stopping by to say hello and ride with us for a few miles. One more rider, Jerry, from too far away for this hour arrived shortly thereafter.

I'd thought, this being a 30-mile recovery ride, that we'd be tooling around in lazy circles, staying off the mountain, the way a recovery ride should.

Nuh-uh.

We were headed to Lambertville by all the usual roads I take when I'm whipping a passel of winter Hill Slugs into shape.

OK, then. This is gonna suck.

Only it didn't. We kept it slow, and, unlike yesterday, the humidity and temperature were down. 

I'm so rarely up this way in the summer that, if I ever knew corn was grown all along Rocktown Road, I've forgotten.

Behind this crop is the Sourland Mountain.

Garboski Road, when stuff is green:

So green that it looks better in black and white:

We stopped at Rojo's, where, this being Sunday, we found seats. As we were about to leave, Blake walked in, halfway through doing his own thing. I suggested he go back with us for a while, which he did, up Quarry/Rocktown.

Even when Blake is chillin', he's faster than the speed of light. He was less riding with us than waiting for us in the shade at the top.  He headed down Dinosaur Hill. We went straight across the ridge, from Rocktown to Mountain, across Linvale, and into the Cathedral.

On our way back into Hopewell, I tried to remember what Dustin's designation was on Rileyville Road. Not the highest point in Mercer County; that's over by Pleasant Valley.

"Highest road."  That's splitting hairs, but we'll take it.

Miss Piggys' shifting was starting to get annoyingly sloppy. I've been adjusting the cables myself, but today her behavior was reminiscent of the mess from the past five years: losing the middle, chain rub, and difficulty moving the front derailleur up the rings. I figured I'd best run her by the good folks at Hart's, to make sure everything was in the right universe before I started messing with the cables again.

Oscar put Piggy up on the stand, declared the cables very loose, and then worked with the shifter. He noticed it was making a creaky noise, and popped open the plastic cover on the underside of the bottom bracket where the cables are internally routed. He noticed some corrosion.

"How could that happen?  It's sealed?"

"Stuff gets in up here," he said, showing me where the derailleur cable emerges from the frame. Blimey.  He squirted some penetrating lube into the hole, gave it a few seconds, and went back to shifting. "It's better," he said, but I'll need new cables soon enough.  Best to go with teflon-coated ones, he said, as if I were going to mess with internally-routed cables myself.

Nuh-uh.

"Park Tools has a kit," he said, "with cable guides and magnets."

Nuh-uh. I'm neither that smart nor that brave. And sure as hell not that patient.

"I want my bikes to work," I said. "I'm giving the internally-routed ones to you guys."

So, November 1 to July 24 is just about nine months, during which I've put a paltry 899 miles on the frame. I've adjusted the cables myself twice and brought it back to the shop just this once. Not bad for a bike called Miss Piggy.  I'm not even sure I'd count today's trouble as a true Piggy Problem. I'll have to consult the judges.  You know who you are.