Recovering From the Recovery Ride

Moxie and a clean backpack

1 July 2018

There's something about summer riding that's extra sticky. 

Jim's recovery ride started at 8:00 a.m. today. I wasn't going to ride from home to Blackwells Mills. I loaded the car, first with my backpack and mug of iced coffee. In my haste I knocked the mug, and the lid popped off, spilling primo cold brew into a deep brown puddle on the driver's seat. I grabbed the nearest towel and mopped it up, then scurried inside for more towels and the remaining cold brew. 

Always have backup coffee in case of emergencies like this.

The temperature was hovering around 80 degrees with relative humidity to match. As I loaded Rowlf into the back of the car my hands already felt tacky.

I drove to the ride sitting on a damp towel and guzzling cold coffee. I got to the parking lot with five minutes to spare.

Everyone else -- Jim, Prem, Ricky, John W, Bill B, and Doctor Lynne -- was ready to go. I was ready at 7:59 a.m., with a damp butt and a deep buzz.

I hadn't ridden with Lynne, Bill, nor John in a long time. We caught up on each other's lives as we made our way through Hillsborough towards, eventually, East Mountain Road. 

Gah, that annoying hill, twice in two days. I charged at it. I wanted to get it over with. I tried to keep pace with Prem but I couldn't hold it. Bill was right behind me, looking as if he was going to make the jump any second. He never did (he said he was "in the zone" and that "passing requires too many brain cells") which at least forced me to keep a steady pace lest both of us wind up sprawled on the asphalt.

We were very spread out by the time we reached the other end. Jim was last, which he often is when he wants to sweep. He wasn't sweeping today; he was leading. "I'm gonna list this as a C+ ride next time," he grumbled. Now he knows what I feel like every. damned. time.

"Sorry," I said. "I wanted to get up the hill."

"And the other side?"

"What does Rowlf want to do all day?" 

(Descend.)

"True. What about everyone else though?"

I had no answer for that.

John left for home. The rest of us stayed together for the route to the Bagel Barn (Hey! I remembered the name!) on 518 at 206. We took our time and then some. Bob N, fresh off a run (of course) stopped by to chat. Another cyclist pulled in and sat near us.  I was too hot to be hungry. I drank a large bottle of Diet Coke (which I tipped over, of course) instead. I used a few napkins to mop up the little spill, and then I used the same napkins to wipe sweat from my hands, because it was so sticky out it just didn't matter. My clothes were wet. My gloves were wet. My helmet was wet. 

I don't remember much of the route home. Jim did a sneaky sidewalk shortcut thing between two streets that don't connect and we got from Harlingen Road to Belle Mead-Griggstown without having to encounter the intersection of Harlingen and Harlingen.

The reason I don't remember much of the second half is that, during the break, I found out that Lynne and Bill had been to Bar Harbor last year. I wanted to know everything they did and everywhere they went. I told them about my mission to find all the online cameras. I realized I should shut up already. I realized that I already miss the place.

"We saw a great cycling jersey on a guy at the top of Cadillac Mountain," Bill said. "Veni, vidi, vomit."  Sounds about right, especially if you make the mistake of looking to the right on that last switchback.

Jim turned towards home as we headed north on Canal Road. The four of us sort of hammered -- as much as one can when the temperature is 90 degrees with 70 percent humidity, which is to say we managed to maintain a steady pace -- back to Six Mile Run. 

The car smelled like coffee. I doused the seat with leftover water and mopped it up with the towel, then used the towel to wipe my sticky self down, because it just didn't matter at this point. I wandered over to the tree that Lynne, Bill, Ricky, and Prem were standing under. "I'm not getting into the car until I stop sweating," I said.

"That's gonna be a while."

"You'll be here til 5:00."

I put a clean towel down on the seat and drove home, drinking the leftover morning coffee, which was now hot. By the time I got home the towel was wet, both from my sweaty butt and the cleaning attempt. I doused the seat again before I went inside.

I looked at the backpack that holds all of my biking gear. I carry it with me whenever I drive to a ride, and I never empty the thing. It now had a salt line where the helmet met the zipper. It was time to dump it in the wash along with the coffee-soaked towels.

I emptied the thing on my bed. I don't know if any of you out there also have a biking backpack, or if you've ever decided to empty it. It's quite the ordeal.

Here's what I found in mine, aside from the t-shirt, towel, sneakers, camera, glasses case, multitudes of long-fingered gloves, arm warmers, and spare Kermit puppets that I knew were in there:

several spare pens, one of which actually worked

lip balm

paper clip

safety pin

three pairs of half-finger gloves (two never worn!)

three pairs of laboratory glove liners

an empty sunglasses case from a pair discarded years ago

a bag full of spare sandwich bags

ancient chain lube

three combs

The backpack is clean now, reloaded, and more spacious than it was this morning.

The car is going to smell like coffee for a while though.