Are You Sure This Isn't a Tom Ride?

Bridge over the Delaware River, Stockton

20 August 2016

Between preparing for the public hearing for the PennEast Pipeline DEIS (an 1100-page NEPA violation) and the September Freewheel deadline (I remained calm this time!), I let last week's blog post slip through the cracks.

When Blake offered to lead us through the hills out of Stockton on Sunday, August 14, we knew the heat index was going to top 100 degrees.

I suggested that he should take out the tough hills and go easy on us.  He thought that was a good idea.  Jim and Jack H also took him up on the offer. Tom, who knew better, begged off.

We started early. I have trouble being hungry before 7:30 a.m. I tried to eat breakfast before 7:00. It didn't work out very well; most of it went into the compost bin. I did drink all of my home-made cold brew coffee, though, so I figured I'd be all right.

We started out by finding a closed road.

Jim asked, "Are you sure this isn't a Tom ride?"

"If this were a Tom ride, we'd be walking through the mud," I explained.

I don't know what Blake's route would have been had we been riding on a cooler day, but it sure didn't feel as if Blake were going easy on us.  I don't usually have to use my granny gear in Buck's County; I don't usually have to stop at every corner to wipe stinging sun block out of my eyes; I don't usually find myself channeling Cheryl on the infamous Double Reservoir Ride.

We wound up at the bottom end of Ralph Stover State Park, where a dirt road was between us and where we wanted to be.

"You sure this isn't a Tom ride?" Jim asked again.

We passed the spot where Tom wiped out on the gravel, which one of us always points out, whether Tom is with us or not.

(Jack teases me about how long I spend blogging. Here's the thing: The more entries I have, the more entries I can link back to, and the longer I spend searching for them. Keywords only do so much.)

After climbing out of the park, I was pretty much out of steam. Stopping for a picture at Van Sant airport was a good excuse to catch my breath.

Then there was more climbing.  I was last. Dead last.

"What the hell hill was that?" I asked.

"Cafferty."

"I'm taking the flat route home on 29. I have too much on my mind and not enough in my stomach."

Jim said, "You might have company."

"We're pretty much on the ridge," Blake assured us.  He was pretty much right.

We were going over a roughly-paved bridge when Jack H got a flat. We found shade while he fixed it. Blake nearly got hit with a flying tire lever that leaped a good three feet from the rim rather than hang on and do its job.

We plummeted down Bridgeton Hill Road to the Homestead General Store, from which we were in no real hurry to depart. Jack H checked his GPS. In 25 miles, we'd climbed 2400 feet. So much for going easy on us.

We walked across the Milford Bridge.

Then we big-ringed it for fifteen miles along the river. Jack H got ahead of us. Where he found the energy I'll never know. We caught up with him two miles from Stockton. He was by the side of the road, not hurt this time, but fixing another flat. 

"Actually, I faked it," he said. "I really needed the rest."  The tire lever went flying off again.