Like Gnats (Looking for the Bald Patch)

Bear Tavern Road

9 April 2017

Like gnats on a warm evening, everyone with climbing gears was in and around the Sourlands today.

The ride was Pete's, called together the day before. Jim, Snakehead, and Ken G (The Mayor now, because he knows everyone) met our leader at the Twin Pines athletic field on Lawrenceville-Pennington Road, where I might be starting my local rides from now on.

It's fun being led in my home territory. Pete sees routes differently. Taking his roads gets me out of my rut and gives me new ideas. Not that I'll want to be crossing Route 31 at Diverty any time soon, but it's been years since I've been down that way, for no good reason.

We were on a mellow, counterclockwise route that got us to the southern side of the mountain. This being early April and a perfectly clear day, we all noticed the bald patch and the water tower at once, and wondered why none of us (all but Jim being able to navigate the Sourlands in our sleep) could place it.

Pete told me that I should title today's post "Looking for the Bald Patch," and that figuring out what it was would be my assignment.

No problem:

The northern exit from Montgomery High School, on Camp Meeting Road, faces the patch directly. Go to Google Maps. Find the high school. Zoom out. Go to Earth view.

Gibraltar Rock.

It's a quarry. We pass the entrance, on 601, just north of Dutchtown Zion, all the time. Climbing D-Z, we're too busy getting up the steepest part of the hill to look through the trees to our right. Not that we'd see anything, but that's where it is.

We took a break at Michael's convenience store in Hopewell. I asked why we weren't going to the much better Boro Bean, down the road, or Brick Farm Market, across the street. Pete and Ken said, "Too crowded."

As if on cue, a dozen cyclists coasted into Brick. We, on the other hand, had the place, and a stale chocolate muffin, to ourselves.

From there, back to the mountain.

At the top of Stony Brook, we merged seamlessly into Cristina's fastboy crowd. I was acutely aware that I was the only one in the group without the raw talent required to keep up. However, Cristina's crew was taking it easy, not having spent the winter on their bikes as we have, and our group mixed with hers all the way to the top of Rocktown Road, where we turned onto Dinosaur Hill and headed for home.

We passed loads of other cyclists, including John K and Fran; Kiyomi and Brad (so I'm told; I don't know either of them); others that Ken knew; and total strangers, alone or in groups.

We were on Bear Tavern Road when Pete hit the little rock with his rear wheel. The rock flew across the road at an urgent speed, and the tire went flat. 

While he worked on the wheel, I squished across a field, finally able to take pictures without disrupting the ride.

We didn't get much farther when Pete hit a pothole and flatted out again. With the wind in my ears and a gap between him and me, I didn't hear the call. Ken caught me a few hundred yards down the road, where we stopped along a stone wall, talked, and waited.

I think the wall is old enough to be earn the sepia treatment.

The repair seemed to be taking too long, so we went back to help out, which Ken did by inserting "That's what she said" into the conversation, the less sensical the better.

The weather was perfect. There was a little wind, but nothing worth complaining about. The sky was clear. The air was dry. We didn't sweat. We didn't shiver. There are few days like this in central New Jersey. We'll see a few more before humidity descends upon us like a heavy blanket and stays until summer is long over.