Hill Slug Chronicles: After All, I Have a Reputation to Protect

Fox Hill Road, Tewksbury

20 August 2016

My most regular of regular Hill Slugs had better things to do today. I figured there'd be a good chance I'd be riding from Hillsborough to Oldwick by myself.

I was wrong. Jack H was there, and Andrew, recovering from a recent fall. Two sometimes Slugs, a not Plain Jim, and Ricky, were standing in the shade when I arrived.

"I came up with this route at 10:30 last night," I warned them. "There's one big hill --"

"Just one?"

"It was described to me by Ron as 'it goes on forever and ends in tears,' and Jim said, 'Oh, like a Wagner opera.'"

Not Plain Jim laughed and said, "So this is the Opera Ride."

Sure, why not?

I like to stop at the Thor Solberg Airport to see if anything is going on.

There was no wind (really!) and a lot of planes near the runway.

On Old Route 28 in Lebanon, we passed a house being torn apart by a large backhoe. Andrew said, "Won't they be surprised when they get home!"

"Oops. Wrong house." I added.

On Mill Road, I kept an eye out for cows in the water. I wasn't disappointed.

This poor kid is covered in flies. Wait'll they smell me.

Rockaway Creek:

Not Plain Jim said, "I didn't think it was possible to come up this way without big hills."

"Yeah. I kept it in the river valley to keep the miles down." I'd zoned out while mapping the route, picking good roads and a few nasty hills, and I brought it in at 78 miles. My goal was 55. I cleared the screen and started over, staying mostly to the east of Oldwick. Never map late at night.

We crossed over Route 78, and I warned everyone that the easy part was over. We started up the lower end of Black River Road, which feels just about flat. "You know," I told N.P. Jim, "I'm being a total asshole." We were passing Vliettown, 21 miles into the ride. "We're really close to Oldwick. We could be there in a couple of miles. But I'm doing this asshole loop up Hollow Brook instead."

In Pottersville, we turned left onto our first major climb.

"Is this better?" I asked N.P. Jim.

Then we turned onto Hollow Brook Road, the Wagner Opera. The surface was freshly-paved. The road was in the shade, the Lamington River trickling at the bottom of a steep slope below us. I knew there was work ahead, but for now, everything was pretty.

"Ah. There it is." I dropped into my granny gear. We got quiet and spread out. The road got steep. The road got steeper. I kept an eye on Jack H, his white jersey visible until it dropped behind the asphalt, a sure sign that he'd reached the top (no, not that he fell; that was just that once).

"Hill enough for ya?" I asked Ricky.

"Murder, she wrote."

"Better?" I asked N.P. Jim. He was too busy catching his breath to curse me out properly.

The reward was the descent on Fox Hill, with fresh blacktop. We passed a couple of riders on their way up. The second one had stopped. I pulled over.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. It's the dropout. Every time I stand up, the wheel shifts and hits the frame." He was riding a 30-year-old, restored, steel Raleigh, quill stem and all, bless him. He'd been messing with the dropout set screws to no avail. He was resigned to walking the rest of the way. He looked like a strong guy who didn't need any bigger gears in the rear, but I pointed to Miss Piggy's 32 and said, "Moutain bike gearing. I can't climb for shit." He thought that was a good idea.

Today's haze made for good blues on the mountains in the distance.

The guys chose to sit in the shade near the back door, rather than in the Adirondack chairs on the lawn of the Oldwick General Store.

"You know that hill we just came down, on 517? I'm gonna be an asshole and take us up it again. Unless you want to cut out 5 miles." There were grumbles all around. They were considering worse things to call me.

"Hey. I have a reputation to protect. I'm slow enough as it is. I have to be tough or nobody will come out on my rides."

I chose to be an asshole and go back up the hill. The ascent between the store and Hill and Dale wasn't bad, after all that. There was much more beyond it. "But we're not going up there," I told Jack H.

"Good," he said, "'Cause if you were, I'd knock your bike to the ground and kick you while you were down,"

We turned onto Hill and Dale, which was also brand new blacktop. I pointed out Hell Mountain and said we'd not be going up it today, you're welcome.

Then it was onto Rockaway Road, fresh blacktop, and Taylor's Mill, chip-seal and bumps.

Retracing our steps, we returned to Mill Road (the cows were gone) and to what was left of the house on Old Highway 28:

My plan was to take South Branch (the one on the west side of the Raritan, not to be confused with the one on the east side) to Pleasant Run.

Right away we saw road closed signs. "Road closed 1500 feet." I went right on by. If we had to double back, we would, but the crew was getting tired. The rollers that had seemed like nothing on the way out were getting to us on the way back. This always happens.

"Road closed 1000 feet."

Yeah, yeah.

"Road closed, 500 feet."

Whatever.

Road closed. Bridge out. Jack H threw up his arms in jest.