Assunpink Creek at MCP East Picnic Area
23 September 2017
We're back to having summer days on weekends. I left the house at 8:20 a.m. on Kermit. We were going to the Freewheeler's Fall Picnic. Ira would be there, a PC linked to his phone's hotspot, to demonstrate the club's new online presence.
The ride calendar went live a week ago. We braced for mass confusion and got mass adulation instead. Our biggest problem was that we didn't include all the ride leaders in the first round of credential-granting, and those left out wanted in right away. Two days after launch, I submitted the October Freewheel and did a virtual happy dance as I watched monthly hours of needless labor disappear into the ether for good.
I entered my October rides into the calendar, "Hill Slugs Ad Hoc," as always. Ira, our club President and web conversion ringleader, emailed me to say that I needn't write "Ad Hoc" anymore, now that we can list a ride an hour before it begins if we want to. I went back in and changed it to "Hill Slugs" for now. I need something snappier though.
Anyway, Ira had his computer set up in the trunk of his car as riders arrived for the all-paces chaos. I knew there were two B rides going out. I found the fast group, to be led by Dave H, but I didn't see the sane group, to be led by Ron M. Ricky, Jim, and Andrew had signed up with Dave, so I did too, nervously, because I didn't recognize most of the faces attached to the beanpole legs that started where my neck ends and ended on lightweight carbon. Fastboys, and a few fastgirls too.
We went north, towards Cranbury, which didn't make much sense to me given that all the scenery worth seeing is south of the park. "We're starting into the wind," the guy I was talking to suggested. He knew my name. I'd forgotten his.
I did manage to catch up with some guys I hadn't seen since the spring, now that I no longer make the Sunday drive to Cranbury or Etra (Allentown is closer) as we hustled along at a pace I could handle but I didn't know for how long.
I stayed toward the back of the mob, keeping Dave in sight. It's been so long since I've been through the intersection of Butcher and Route 33 that I didn't know a Wawa had been built there. That was our rest stop.
I perked up a little during the second half, but I was putting out more effort than I wanted to. I get a second wind at 40 miles. That would have been about 33 miles into the route. We were on the home stretch, and I started to inch my way towards the front of the middle pack. I ended up pulling the middle group across Herbert Road.
My average, when we pulled back into the park, as displayed on my little cyclocomputer, was a few tenths shy of breaking the rules. Son Of said we had gone over.
I rested Kermit against a tree, peeled off my gloves, removed my helmet and glasses, snapped on my cleat covers, and went to join the lunch crowd under the pavilion.
There was more catching up to do, and some name-asking on my part, once I found myself sitting across from one of the fastgirls. Despite the large spread of food from Business Bistro, I didn't eat anything.
I found Winter Larry as he was leaving the party and tried to run in my cleats to catch up to him. We sat on the grass and talked. We heard cheers erupting from the pavilion, and, for the second week in a row, I'd run my mouth and missed the festivities. The cheer, apparently, was for the online ride calendar.
I went back to the pavilion, hungry now, and caught the end of Ira's speech as I folded a veggie burger in half and ate it with my hands.
Gordon and I left together, winding through the shady path to the wooden bridge over the Assunpink Creek. He talked photography while I tried not to overexpose.
The water was a murky, sickly green.
Cheryl is leaving for Florida tomorrow, after spending two months up here. She made sure to give me a pair of socks first. "Hellraiser," they say.
They'll go in the drawer next to the pair that says, "Master of the Shit Show." I have such good friends.
No comments:
Post a Comment