Fast and Flat*

Sunflowers and Wind, Ward Avenue, Bordentown

(*It's all relative.)

2 September 2017

I was raised in a verbally abusive household. The abuse extended to relatives and to the schoolyard. I stopped fighting back and turned the abuse inwards. By age 15 I thoroughly hated myself. With a lot of work and time I fought past it. Still, there's something about me that makes me a target. I wear my insecurity on my sleeve, insulting myself before anyone else can. I suppose insecure people see that and figure they can score some easy points off of me. I don't fight back with insults or a well-placed "fuck you." At work that would be grounds for dismissal. In the volunteer world it would be disrespectful. On my bike I can get away with a little more, and then I can blog about it.

What was left of Harvey was making its way to New Jersey this morning. There would be enough time for Tom's Pinelands Cruise before the rain was to begin.

The wind was out of the east, the clouds hung heavy, and the air was cool and sticky.  I left without arm warmers. It took me two miles to stop feeling cold. 

I was riding with Tom, Chris, and Jack H. Maybe it was the temperature and the threat of rain that did it, but we set out at a fast clip for a bunch of Slugs, and we never let up. 

Our first rest stop was 18 miles in, at the Wawa at the southern edge of Browns Mills. I was still running on breakfast coffee when I added to it. I figured it would either serve me well or give me a headache.

Chris was gunning for me on 4 Mile Road. This wouldn't be the first time he's spend a ride with me in his sights. I'd called him on it before. He started with trying to tell a story about me to Jack H, who, as best I could tell through my rear-view mirror, either wasn't listening or didn't hear him. When that didn't work he went directly to me, getting himself partway into a mansplaining lecture about my self-described lack of speed when I cut him off. "Chris," I said, "I've been riding since 2000. I don't think there's anything left for you to teach me." We turned onto Upper Mill Road. I added, "I'm not known for my speed. I'm known for my consistency. Check in with me in another 25 miles." We were at mile 26.

We stopped again at the Brendan Byrne State Park ranger's office to use the bathrooms.

Tom checked the radar. We would be riding south, then west, as the leading edge of the rain would be moving in from the southeast.  We did get pelted a little bit near Chatsworth and up through the cranberry bogs near Southampton. It was enough rain for me to stop and move my camera into a plastic bag.

We left the rain behind as we neared Smithville. We were keeping an average speed that we didn't want to destroy, so rather than detour through the park on a path, we decided to take our chances on the closed bridge on Smithville Road instead. Nothing to it. The bridge has been out all year, but work has yet to begin.

We stopped again at Olde World bakery in Easthampton. Chris declared that I don't like this place because they don't have muffins. I've never said I don't like the place. I have written that I never buy any food there. This is because it's all stuff that would give me a stomach ache. But it sure is pretty.

Tom came out with a solid, doughnut-looking thing. Chris followed with a chocolate-covered mound of peanut butter mousse. "Man, I wish I had room to carry one of those home," I said. I might have been able to squeeze a petit-four into my pocket, but it wasn't worth the mess nor the calories.

I took a picture of a morning glory instead.

And I checked the radar.

It was all south of us (we're the circle in the center and KDIX is the nearest weather station), but we'd best beat it back home.

We lit out again, as the wind picked up, and maintained our furious-for-Slugs pace. At mile 52 I looked for Chris. He was behind me and he pretty much stayed there.

We hammered all the way into Bordentown, where a few rollers and stop signs put a 0.1 mph dent in our average.  We beat the rain though.

On my way home I hopped out of the car to take pictures of a flower farm on Ward Avenue.

Three forgotten tomatoes and a drooping sunflower brought home the message that summer is nearly over.

I arrived home to an angry email message from a fellow environmental volunteer who took it upon herself to blame me, as the owner of an email list set up fifteen years ago for a group I'm no longer directly involved with, for the fact that her messages weren't getting through. It would help, of course, if she were to use an email address that the list would recognize as hers before blaming an innocent volunteer. I did, however, play up her insult with every message, and I vowed to ride that insult into the sunset. I do, from a distance, resemble a dumpster. I might as well make it work for me.