With A Little Help From My Friends, With Knobs On

Pole Farm, Lawrence-Hopewell Trail

10 December 2016

Grover's new tires are super-knobby. To Plain Jim and Jack H, as we braved the first freezing air we'd faced in nearly a year, I sounded as if I were atop a swarm of bees.  The gradual grade up Princeton Pike to the Maidenhead Meadows northern entrance felt more like a real hill. Less than three miles in, I was already working.

As we pulled in, so did Dave's latest automotive acquisition, an old, red Jaguar. "There's a surprise for you in that Jag," I said. The passenger door opened and out popped Joanna Lumley. Joanna was supposed to ride with us, but the cold got the better of her, and Dave, her host, had promised to keep her company. [I'm writing this before the PFW party; I'm still sworn to secrecy. If you're good with the backs of people's heads, then the secret is out. Keep mum for another hour, okay?]

With the sun out and a mild breeze, we didn't feel cold.

The fall colors are gone. We're into muted browns and dull greens now.

I've only been on the entirety of the Lawrence-Hopewell Trail a handful of times spread out over a handful of years. The route has changed as new cinder chip trails have replaced sections that had been on roads. The signs are still hard to see, but they're getting better. I made sure days ahead of time that Tom would be there; he knows where he's going, mostly. Lucky for us, though, there were three other riders who use the trail regularly:  Peter G, Tim, and The Jerry Foster.  We were in good hands. There was always someone who knew where to turn when the little green signs were hiding.

With the wind picking up, we followed a slow grade through an open field in the Pole Farm. In the distance, at the top, is the divide between the Delaware and Raritan watersheds.

I was near the back anyway, so I stopped for pictures. Tom did too, farther up the hill.

"This is today's high point," Tom said. "Two hundred and fifty feet above sea level."

We coasted down the other side and crossed over into Rosedale Park.

From there, we slogged through mud at the Equestrian Center (one of the few sections where my tires were helping me), enjoyed tree-lined sheltered road on Old Mill, and popped out into the open on Pennington-Rocky Hill Road. New-ish trail took us down Wargo Road, along the side of Honey Brook Organic Farm, and over the new bridge (yes, the road is open!).

From there, the trail goes through a neighborhood (where direction signs are missing, but Pete, Tim, and Jerry knew the way). Back at Pennington-Rocky Hill Road, Pete said he'd been on a new stretch of trail farther north that would dump us out on Carter Road. This section, still marked as "future LHT" on the map I was carrying, would lead to Cleveland (where I'd suffer again because of my stupid knobs) and the closed section of Province Line. Tom had planned to go back on Bayberry, but I wanted to follow the map's trail because I like the little bridge over the Stony Brook.

We hauled ourselves out of that valley and, unbeknownst to me, another trail marker that led to a foot path. What Tom and Tim knew about was the Transco gas line right-of-way that would take us to ETS. I was glad for my tires again as we squished through thick spongy grass.  Jerry said we'd been better off on the right-of-way anyhow.

Next, we were in Carson Road Woods, where a dirt path has been replaced with red clay cinders.

The sky was clouding over. The wind was picking up.

We stood for a while in the Maidenhead Meadows parking lot, plotting and scheming for the next day, next weekend, and next year. Then, with Jim, Jack, and Tim in tow, I headed into the cold again, back down Princeton Pike, over the highway ("I hate that hill!" Tim said), and back home, where I propped Grover near the doorway in case anyone wants to brave even colder weather tomorrow.