Stuck On a B Ride With You

Doonesbury, 6 February 1975

26 March 2018

Whenever Chris gets a captive audience he likes to go off-script. There are roads in Mercer County I've only ever been on when Chris has been dragging me around on a ride with no destination. Today was one of those days, and he took Plain Jim with us.

"There's a strong wind out of the northeast," I said.

"We should go that way first," Jim added.

"We'll head up to Jamesburg, to Mendoker's or something," Chris decided, and while I pondered whether or not I could fit an entire mini seven-layer cake in my cavernous jacket pocket, we started by going south.

We zigged and zagged, and if we were going to get all the way to Jamesburg it would take all day at this rate.

Jim asked, "How many times are we going to cross the Turnpike?"

I answered, "How many you got?" (This is the standard answer for how many Free Wheelers it takes to change a tube.)

The answer was the same for crossing Route 130. Jim busted out his Latin verse as we rode on the highway for a handful of feet in order to arrive at a brass plaque on a brick base on a cement slab at the edge of the highway in front of a torn-up field housing public works trucks.

This was a war memorial for some sort of parachute division. I had Jim pretend to read the explanatory text so that the photo would at least be a little bit interesting.

Now that we were on the non-Jameburg side of 130 again, Chris decided to take us up Woods Road.

At Chris' suggestion years ago, when the Perrineville Road bridge over the Turnpike was being enlarged, I'd taken a group down Woods Road and was met with a chorus of "never do that again."

Yet here we were. "The unpaved parts are better than the paved parts," Chris commented. He was right, but only just. Jim and I were both reminded of some road in Pennsylvania that Tom had taken us on that was so bad we had to walk. We didn't walk this one; in a few more years we'd need to.

When we came out of the worst of it I stopped to get a picture of a barn because I figured I'd never be back this way again.

Jim doubled back to document the road. I followed. This here is the better part. The dark stuff isn't wet; it's crater.

Pondering his post-ride blog, Jim mused, "I don't know whether to lead off with the war memorial or the potholes." 

"We're only 18 miles in," I reminded him. "There could be more."

By this point we had twenty into-the-wind miles on us, so instead of Mendoker's it was Wawa. We pulled in to see a tall, red-bearded, smooth-helmeted, sleeveless tank-topped, arm-warmered, sweat-pantsed and sweaty cyclist who was so focused on his sandwich that I couldn't tell if he was eating it or making out with it. We left him alone; clearly he didn't want to talk.

Standing outside got Chris' feet cold and mine too. We got ourselves back to Old York Road and surfed the tailwind all the way to Allentown.

While Jim will burst into song with little more provocation than a busy intersection, it takes a certain level of impending misery for us to start writing songs dedicated to our ride leaders. Tom earned one in 2012. Now it was, at long last, Chris' turn. He felt honored.

It took a few iterations and a discussion about scansion, and the first verse didn't really come together until we were halfway home. To the tune of "Stuck in the Middle with You" by Stealers Wheel, we give you this.

I don't know why I came here at all

My legs so tired I might even fall

I'm so scared that you'll drop me somewhere

At my GPS I'll just have to stare

Gravel to the left of me

Potholes to the right

Here I am

Stuck on a B ride with you

For the earworm, you're welcome.

Somewhere north of the Assunpink something started falling across the empty fields.  "This is not snow!" Jim declared.

I said, "I'm a reasonable man, MacArthur, so I know this isn't snow," and neither one of them had the faintest clue what I was talking about. Ingrates.

We warmed our toes in Bruno's, talking about bikes and cameras. I bought some chocolates because I'd been primed by the idea of Mendoker's, and who can resist a homemade Allfather's knockoff in a pretty little box and everything?

Inside the shop all is color.

Outside it was raining.