Jerry's Brooklyn Grill, Whitehouse Station, NJ
18 August 2018
"I had my phone on the calendar," Ricky said. "I kept hitting refresh."
He wasn't the only one who thought I'd cancel today's ride. Between home and the north side of Princeton I was driving in a drizzle. No matter; if we're going to be stuck in this weather pattern for the rest of the summer then we're going to have to be willing to risk a few downpours.
I stepped out of the car at Woodfield Park to a full complement of Hill Slugs. Jim, Tom, Ricky, Jack H, and Blake were all as willing to dodge the rain as I was. We were joined by one newcomer, Rick R, who has been attempting to get to one of my rides all season.
Before we set out I documented the sky.
"As long as we can see our shadows," I said to Jack.
In my rear water bottle I'd dropped a tablet of Nuun, some berry-flavored concoction, hoping that it would taste better than diluted Gatorade and that it would be good enough that I'd actually drink all of it. I took a tentative sip. While it wasn't awful, it was an entirely different kind of icky.
I like going around the reservoir clockwise because it puts us closer to the water. Counterclockwise is a little easier, I think, because the climb is broken into sections. Plus there's the best descent in Hunterdon County if you go counterclockwise.
We started from Dreahook, avoiding Stanton Mountain Road and going south past the old general store instead. When going over the route online I'd noticed that the store, recently a pizza place, wasn't even on the map. It didn't look open when we coasted by either. (It's not. According to the Internet, the Stanton General Store is permanently closed. For now.)
The clockwise climb is a three-tiered slog. Before that there are two little humps. On the first one I heard a noise, felt some resistance, and assumed that my rear brake was rubbing. I'd put on new tires two days prior, and I'm not the best at seating the rear wheel. Everything was aligned when I stopped to check. On the second little hump I realized that the noise and resistance were coming from my bottom bracket. I've had this frame for nearly three years. It wouldn't surprise me if it were time for a bottom bracket replacement.
The real climb is in three parts., lately conveniently labeled for a triathlon back in May. I'd seen the names hastily spray-painted in previous years: Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear. This time the organizers went all out. Not only were there labels, but also stenciled bears.
On one of these bears Rick and I got talking. "It's a good sign if you can keep up with the ride leader," he said.
I told him I never go all-out. "I'm always looking ahead to the next day or the next week."
He's been triathlon training, and his coach is of the opinion that one should go all out all the time. "I don't agree," he said. "My philosophy is to finish happy." That's a good philosophy*.
After Baby Bear was one more marking on the road. I went over it so quickly that I'm not sure I read it correctly. Did it really say "Prebaby Bear?" Could they not spell "fetal?"
The same folks had also helpfully painted "slow down" right before the sharp turn near the boat launch.
The water level at the reservoir is back where it should be. The air was so hazy that most of my photos were duds. I zoomed in on the kayakers and paddle boarders.
Zooming in and lightening this one up, I realized that a dragonfly had photo-bombed the kayakers.
We followed the edge of the reservoir to Old Mountain Road. At the turn there, the spray-painters did my work for me again by telling us all to slow down.
Old Mountain has been a crater farm for years. Today it looked as if it had been paved yesterday. That made climbing easier, for which I was grateful, nervous that I'd succumb to cramps again. My legs felt fine; the grinding in my bottom bracket was more disconcerting.
At the top of one of the rollers Jim got a flat. Blake and Jack had gone so far ahead that they didn't see us stop. We figured they'd be at the rest stop by the time we got rolling again. They weren't; Jack had climbed back up the hill (of course he did) to find us, while Blake waited at the bottom (doing a crossword puzzle on his phone, he told me later). We all rode into Whitehouse Station together for our rest stop at Jerry's Brooklyn Grill.
I sat on the sidewalk next to the bench. Only when we were getting ready to go did I notice that it was covered in lichen.
I didn't like the looks of the sky to our east as we left.
"I'm gonna finish this ride," I told Ricky as I dug around for my second spare tube.
"We have a riddle," I told Rick. "How many Free Wheelers does it take to fix a flat?"
He thought for a second. "One to hold the tire, one to---."
I shook my head and cut in. "How many ya got?" Now Rick has been initiated.
My second spare tube and Tom's Mountain Morph pump got us to 100 psi and on our way. We only had four miles left.
Despite two flat tires and a leisurely rest stop, we made it back to Hillsborough without getting rained on. Blake and I were the last to leave. We both heard the thunder.
I decided to take Miss Piggy directly to Hart's. I took Route 518 through Hopewell, where I noticed that the restaurant next to Boro Bean, the one that was Bell and Whistle, and then Sweetgrass, and then Basilico or something, is now Entrata. Rest stops and restaurants are like mayflies around here.
Hart's was crowded when I wheeled Miss Piggy in. I could have left her there with one of the shop employees, but I saw Ross in the back. I only let Ross and Oscar work on Miss Piggy. The three of them have a history. I wheeled her farther in and waited.
"You're back early!" Ken was standing in the middle of the store. "Did you ride?" I was surprised my sweaty appearance and humidity-induced stench hadn't given that away.
"Why weren't you with us?" I chided. He'd had a time constraint, was thinking it would rain, and went hiking on Baldpate Mountain instead. While I waited I called up my maintenance spreadsheet on my phone and figured out how many miles I had on this bottom bracket. I held the phone up to Ken. "Is 3800 a lot?" I asked him. He didn't think so.
When Ross was free I told him what was going on. "Wanna hang?" he asked. "I can take a look now if you want." This is why I give my mechanical work to Hart's. It's like an English pub in there. I sat on one of the two stools next to the counter and watched them pull Piggy apart. Ross and I caught each other up while he worked on some tiny mess of metal on his side of the counter.
Tom, once the owner of a bike shop in PA, now part-time for Ross, showed a young mechanic how to remove the bottom bracket while Ross looked on and jumped in when necessary. Ross checked the bearings. Tom cleaned the bracket. "It was a little dirty," Tom said. "The bearings look good," Ross added. They had me take her for a test ride out back, but in a flat parking lot there was no way to tell.
"I'll know next week," I said. Tom is planning the annual Lying Bastard Ride on the Pennsylvania side. I knew they wouldn't charge me so I bought two tubes to replace the ones I'd used today.
"Bring it back at the end of the year and we'll reassess," Ross said as I wheeled Miss Piggy out of the store.
[19 August 2018: Well, whaddaya know? This time it is actually raining all day.]
(*One of the Spinal Tap drummers said something to that effect.)
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