Manasquan Inlet
28 August 2017
I: Tires
After Tom's Lying Bastard Ride I decided to take a week off the bike. It wasn't easy, given that the weather was perfect all week, but I muddled through.
I thought I'd use the time to replace Beaker's and Miss Piggy's tires. I didn't get around to it until Thursday evening at around 9:15 p.m. I figured I'd start with Beaker's difficult 25 mm wheels, move on to Piggy's 23s, and wrap up in an hour.
Ha.
I'd forgotten what a bitch Beaker's rims are. Two years ago I had to give up completely on a pair of wire bead Gatorskins and go with my usual Michelin Pro 4s. This time around I bought another pair of Pro 4s; I didn't think it would be as bad as last time.
It was.
It was worse. I broke two tire levers (the pieces flew across the room) and blew through a handful of tubes (because I resorted to using a screwdriver, knowing full well what would happen) before calling it quits at 11:00 p.m. All I had to show for my efforts was a new rear tire, the tube fully inflated, a new front tire with a dead tube inside. a pile of punctured tubes, two dead levers, and talcum powder all over the carpet.
I knew what I had to do, and the next morning I did it. "I have to hang my head in shame," I told Michael Johnson over the phone. I was crying uncle on a set of wheels he hadn't much approved of when I got them, cheap, in 2015. He didn't shame me, though. "Sometimes you have to put the tires on another set of rims and inflate them to 120 psi to stretch them out." I left work a little early and made my way over to Wheelfine with Beaker in the car.
When I walked in, Michael said to his assistant (I think his name is Scott), "She got three thousand miles out of a pair of Michelins!" This was, in his eyes, something close to a miracle. Scott told a story of the time he took his bike on a two-day trip to East Nowhere only to discover that, upon arrival, his tires had worn down to the threads. He went to a general store and bought electrical tape.
"No way," I said, picturing what was coming next. He proceeded to wrap his tires in electrical tape. "It held," he said.
They went to work, using full metal levers and a special tool that grips and pulls the tire over the rim (he sold me one). In labor time it might have taken them 20 minutes, but this is Michael, and I was there for well over an hour.
"I have to go," I said. "I have dinner plans in Princeton at 7:00." It was nearing 6:00 when I stepped outside.
II: Clouds
A storm gathers over the Sourland Mountain
"Whoa! Look at the sky!" Michael followed me out and watched me take pictures as he talked.
Thunder rumbled to the west. Michael kept talking. A woodpecker flew onto the tree at the front of the store and caught our attention. "I have to go," I said again. My timing was perfect: I had to unload Beaker in the pouring rain.
III: Rainbow
Princeton North shopping center
Back in the day, from 2010 to 2014, I worked with a perfect mix of people. We were tight. We had each other's backs. We'd often go out to dinner. Jack would supply the wine. Then a couple of them graduated, two of the post-docs left, and the lab got bigger. We all still get along, but everyone is off doing his or her thing. With each new grant and each new hire, I lose ten IQ points in status. I'm probably in negative territory. It's hard for me to feel like one of the crowd when I'm playing the role of village idiot and taking the knives and bullets for everyone else.
So when one of the old gang is back in town, we get a small group together and do our best to recreate the scene. We rustled up one of the grad students and a post-doc, both of whom would have fit right in seven years ago. Jack brought some wine. We met at Nomad in Princeton, down in the old shopping center. The rain was ebbing as we pulled in. The double rainbow appeared after we'd ordered our pizzas.
IV: Recovery
Stony Brook, Stony Brook Road
With a week's worth of rested legs and a stomach full of Nomad pizza, I got up early that Saturday morning and left on Kermit for Allentown at 7:00 a.m. The rain was long gone but the humidity was sticking around, sticky. I was in the running for Miss Sweaty America by the time I coasted into Reed Recreation Park for the 8:00 a.m. ride.
Chris, who had ridden in from home, was equally sweaty. Note to self and to everyone else: Do not, I repeat, do not, wear light-colored, decades-old, triathalon gear when the humidity is higher than the air temperature. This, this, is why bike gear is black.
Ron, the scheduled leader, was off chasing the eclipse. Chris led us southeast and then we somehow wound up in Smithville at the Olde World bakery. As the morning wore on the humidity dropped. When I got home I had 79 miles.
In the evening I changed Miss Piggy's tires with little effort. "This is how it's supposed to go," I told Jack.
I slept in the next day, figuring I'd do a short, solo recovery ride with Miss Piggy somewhere. Then Blake texted, and we made last-minute plans to meet in Pennington. I didn't have a route in mind, much less a rest stop. "I was thinking we could go to Rojo's," Blake offered. So we went to Lambertville.
He'd been out with Cheryl and Nevada the day before. They'd all apparently beaten each other up, so Blake and I were both tired. I can only keep up with him when he's tired. We kept a leisurely pace and talked about all sorts of stuff, including important coffee snob stuff: burr grinders, aero presses, French presses, proper water temperature.
And, for the first time ever, I stopped near the top of Stony Brook to get a picture of the stream. I've always known the bridge is there; it's one of the markers for the top of the hill. But I've never looked over, in all these years, to see what was under the bridge.
So I guess the recovery week went well enough. I don't know if I got any speed back, but my legs didn't hurt.
V: Flemington
I had a big ride planned. We'd start in Milford and head up in the hills to Belvidere. Then we'd go back to Milford by following the Delaware River most of the way. It would be a one-stop metric with all the big climbs in the first half.
And none of my regulars had the time to do it. After a flurry of emails that hinted of a larger attendance if I were to start from Pennington, I caved in and dug out an early spring route to Flemington.
The ride announcement went up on Thursday afternoon. Confirmations trickled in all day Friday. I figured I'd get half a dozen people.
The day started with a lone blossom from a new hibiscus that sprung up this year in the middle of a clump of ferns.
Jim and Ricky arrived at the house early, and then Jack H rolled in. Jim had begged for the ride to start from Twin Pines, the new recreation field where the little, old airport used to be. It's only four miles from home. We got there to face far more than the three or four other Slugs I expected. When the signing in was complete, there were sixteen riders listed (although I noticed only now that one line was blank, which explains why Jim and I could only ever account for 15 people). Jim agreed to sweep.
The crowd consisted of Plain Jim, Jack H, Ricky, Blake, Cheryl, Nevada, Gordon, John, Andrew, Celeste, Tom, The Jerry Foster, Len, JeffX, and me. The battery in Jim's camera had died. I took people pictures for him with the promise that he, not I, would post them.
Cheryl was riding nervous circles in the parking lot. This was her first day on her new Cervelo. She wasn't sure how the electronic shifting business worked. When I asked her what she was going to name the bike, she said she was considering "White Lightning." The bike is black. "I wouldn't name anything white anything right now," I said. It took a second, then, "Oh. Right." White Lightning is a brand of chain lube anyway.
We went up and over the Sourland Mountain without losing anyone. The group went ahead on Wertsville while I took these pictures at the bottom of Rileyville:
The hand-made, donated bike rack outside of Factory Fuel was against a wall behind a stand that a vendor had set up. A few of us leaned our bikes against the side of the building instead. Someone moved the stand to the edge of the sidewalk. Jim posted the pictures.
I went inside to order an iced coffee and a home-made pop-tart, and to take pictures of the kiln where Pfaltzgraff pottery used to be made.
Toward the end of the break, Cheryl said she wanted a group picture. "I don't wanna be in a picture," I said. "You can see my forehead from the moon." I went inside to use the bathroom instead. I didn't know that she went through with it until she posted the photos on Facebook. Gordon was behind the camera. I'd have taken the picture, so that Gordon could be in the shot, had I known.
After the break we started to get a little more spread out. I told a couple of riders in the front, including Jack H, that we'd be turning off of Rileyville onto Saddle Shop Road.
As we approached Rileyville from the east, a small group of riders made the turn from the west. I suspected there would be some confusion, and there was. When we gathered on Runyon Mill at the end of Saddle Shop we were a few riders shy. "A couple of them didn't turn," somebody said.
"You ride ahead, you're on your own," I replied. I'd made that clear in the beginning.
We went up Runyon Mill and over Orchard. This is climbing the mountain sideways. It lets us take in the view to the north, and for me to stop for a dilapidated barn.
At the top of the next rise Jerry had stopped to take pictures.
He was enamored with the butterflies among the wildflowers. I didn't see any.
From there to Linvale to Snydertown and the few who had missed the turn caught up with us. Celeste and Andrew peeled off to go there separate ways when we reached 518 on Stony Brook. We got spread out again on Pennington-Rocky Hill Road, but by that point everyone knew where to go. We all finished within a few minutes of each other.
I asked John if he had any JDRF training rides coming up. "Yeah. Tomorrow. 70 miles to Manasquan from Allentown, 8:00 a.m."
VI: Manasquan
I definitely wouldn't have the legs to ride over and make it a century. Instead I drove. I was the only one in the group who wouldn't be participating in the Saratoga Springs century in September. I was also the only one of five who wasn't wearing JDRF cycling gear. The guys were cool with that; I'd given John and Jerry K donations this summer. A third rider, Jonas, I'd met briefly before. The other two were strangers.
They were all strong. John lit out on Route 524 as if his legs were fresh. Mine hurt, and I wondered if I'd be better off turning back before I got too far into this. After we rolled down Ely Harmony and stopped to fix a minor mechanical, John slowed the pace and my legs stopped hurting.
We hopped onto the Capital to Coast bike trail in Wall. It's a bumpy affair, a former rail bed that ends near Main Street in Manasquan. The trail is more concept than reality at the moment. There's only one other paved component, and that's somewhere in West Windsor.
The plan was to see the beach then get some food on Main Street in Manasquan. Not until we neared the shore did I remember the Sandy Seagull. I tried to lead us to it but we went all the way to the inlet without finding the place. John searched on his phone while the rest of us took pictures.
From Main I should have turned left, not right. We doubled back. When I saw the radio tower I got my bearings. "It's next to the tower," I said.
The joint was jumping, and they'd run out of food. Hand-written signs tacked to the bottom of the menu board announced, "no chicken," "no pork," and "no bacon." The pastry shelf held a pair of tongs and a few crumbs.
There was, however, iced Homestead coffee, and the guys were able to order some kind of sandwich. I had a few energy bars with me.
We sat outside. The old tricycle that Jim had posed on was gone. I tried to be artsy with the umbrella and the shack instead.
We walked up to the beach to use the bathrooms there.
John and I noticed the shark bike. He moved the helmet for a better picture.
Then we were back on the bumpy trail, with a tailwind this time.
We had a brief pit stop in the parking lot of Allaire State Park.
And then the guys took off, leaving me and John to fend for ourselves for the better part of 20 miles. This is the risk one runs when one plans an out-and-back route and the strongest rider programs the route home into his GPS.
We met up with them at the Minit Stop in Jackson, but as soon as we got rolling again, they all disappeared.
We found Jerry, unsure about a turn, having himself been dropped, at an intersection. He jumped ahead a few more times but he kept us in sight.
The rest of the group was waiting in the parking lot in Allentown. I felt duty-bound to make an excuse for me and John. "You guys didn't do 50 miles of hills yesterday."
"Nope!" they said. And, "Why would you do something like that?" and "I did nothing yesterday."
Anyway, these guys are riding for a good cause. All y'all should donate something to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.
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