#49

Belmar the way I like it

27 May 2017

I'm a week late again.  This post is coming to you from Bar Harbor, Maine. More on that later. 

As of May 19, Miss Piggy had more miles on her for the year than Kermit did. A flat century from my house to Belmar would fix that.

Jim met me at my house under cloudy skies. The wind was steady out of the east as we pushed off a bit before 8:00 a.m. We'd be fighting the wind all the way to the shore, more or less. We weren't even five miles from home when Jim's GPS, a Garmin Touring, lost the route. My GPS was still functioning.  As always, I had my hand-written cue sheet. The route wasn't the usual one I take, and I'm a doofus on the east side of Route 1 anyway.

I lead my centuries in stages so that people can pick their distance. I wasn't sure if we'd have any 85-milers. The parking lot for the East Picnic Area at Mercer County Park was full when we got there. This wasn't the first time I'd led a ride from there the same day as the Attitudes in Reverse 5K run.  The lot was full of cars and dogs and runners, but no Hill Slugs. We moved on to Etra Park.

"It feels like we've been climbing for 18 miles," I said to Jim as we slowed in the lot at Etra Park. Jack H was there. He'd started from Mercer County Park, but, having arrived early, rode to Etra on his own. 

Ricky, meanwhile, had started from his house in Monroe. "This will be my first century," he said, somewhat offhand. "Eat," Jim and I said. As we started over the shallow rollers of the Bagel Hills, I coached him. "In the words of one of my Spinning instructors," I said, "You have a full tank. Sip on it. It's gonna be a long day."

We passed the Manasquan Reservoir, always worth a picture stop.

With impeccable timing, my GPS got confused minutes before I missed a turn. We figured it out. Now that I know what that intersection looks like, I won't miss it again. My GPS found itself once we made the turn. A few drops of rain fell. Jim reported that he was going to blog that it started raining as soon as we got lost, not because it was true, but because he liked the way it sounded.

We reached the beach at Sea Girt (that name always bothers me; I turn "girt" to "grit"). The wind was whipping something fierce along the coast as we blended in with MS Coast the Coast riders.

Our usual stop at 16th Street was pleasantly empty.  I made my helmet into a Sean Spicer impersonation (Google it).

These fine cruisers belonged to a group of young women who, upon bursting out of the Dunkin Donuts, exclaimed, "Cold!" before pedaling away.

We didn't need the reminder.

I wandered over to the boardwalk for the requisite beach photographs.

The beach I like best is the beach with no people.

Yes, we had a tailwind helping us along our return trip, but the added effort during the first half took its toll on me during the second. I was more tired than I wanted to be.

At a crucial turn, my GPS lost the route. We found our way, but my GPS never did. "My Garmin 820 is a $500 piece of shit," I said. "That's how I'm going to start my blog post." (I turned it into a long Facebook rant on the Freewheeler's group wall. It garnered quite the thread of responses. The jury is divided on whether or not I own a lemon or if its owner is a dope.)

In Hightstown Ricky peeled off. "I feel fine," he said, with 15 miles to go.

"Congratulations!" we all called out.

"Sonofabitch didn't even break a sweat," I said as we turned onto Old York Road. "He's a natural."

We had two miles to go when I began to question whether or not I'd do a century past one more for an even 50. Jim was sure he was finished with 100-mile rides altogether.

The first century of the season is always the roughest. I was a hurting puppy for the rest of the evening. I even backed out of a morning 10-mile recovery ride with a friend (one I'd asked to join) because I wasn't sure I'd have it in me. Instead, I stayed up late to finish the June Freewheel and slept past 9:00 the next morning.

I got up and decided to cook breakfast, which is something I never do. It takes time, which I something I never have. I got out some potatoes I'd roasted earlier in the week, and set about making an omelet with a few vegetables and egg whites from eggs that I probably should have discarded a while ago. The pan being too big, what I wound up with was something between an omelet and a scramble. A scromelet. I need a smaller pan.

By mid-afternoon I was feeling better and texted Sean about maybe doing a recovery ride. He said yes, and in half an hour Rowlf and I were ready for a 25-miler that Sean promised wouldn't be hilly. I

It wasn't, until we got to the top of Cherry Valley Road (Sean had to wait for me to get there) and decided that there was no way we could pass up the newly-paved Hopewell-Princeton Road descent.

Rowlf, who isn't geared for climbing, was made to descend. If I could take Miss Piggy up every hill and Rowlf down, I would. Man, does that bike hug the road!

At the bottom I doubled back to take pictures of Beden brook that runs next to the Saint Michael's Preserve.

We climbed out of the Hopewell valley on the Great Road. I hadn't been on that stretch in years. Sean had to wait for me again there too.

We turned on Rosedale Road, where we became part of stopped traffic while a good Samaritan picked up a rather large snapping turtle with his bare hands and moved it off the road. From there we went on to Carter Road, to Cold Soil, and around the Pole Farm.

I stopped to take a picture of Monday's weather rolling in.

The ride went a little long, but it was worth it, not only because I finally got to ride with Sean again, but also because it took the soreness out of my legs. Also, including the previous week's commute, I could now say that I'd ridden three of my five road bikes over the past four days. It helps to be able to justify a fleet once in a while.