Dialing It Back, Parts One and Two

The Insane Bike Posse Looks at Lake Nockamixon

3 September 2018

I'm sorry for the delay in blogging. Glassblowing class has started, and, in addition to class and studio time, we have reading and instructional video assignments.

Part One: Tom's Lying Bastard Ride

Anyway, two weekends ago Tom gathered the Insane Bike Posse in the parking lot behind the Bridge Cafe in Frenchtown. Among the usual suspects were Blake, Jack H, Ricky. We had three extras: Joe M, Paul I, and a dead ringer for Brenda P (from back in the day) named Laurie. Paul was with us for the same reason Jim wasn't: new medication was messing with their fitness and both needed to dial it back for a spell.

I needed to dial it back too. The leg work I'd been doing at the gym had caught up with me on the road, causing an intermittent yet disturbing twinge behind my left knee whenever I put too much load on it. It wouldn't happen at all at the gym, so I couldn't figure out if it was the squats or the dead lifts that were doing me in. My plan for the day was to ride at least one gear lower than usual and make it up all of the hills without pain. I'd be in the back, but what's new?

The route was another iteration of Tom's annual Lying Bastard ride. With the declaration that "truth isn't truth" in the week's news, Tom figured that he should rename it the Bastard Ride. I told him that if he paid me $130,00 I wouldn't tell everyone that his ride sucked.

With the newcomers on board, the rest of us suggested that Tom give us the ritual blessing with his Holy Kickstand.

I had to snap the obligatory Frenchtown Bridge pictures before we walked over it.

This being Pennsylvania I had no idea where we were once we got to the other side of the bridge. Here's the route if you want to follow along.

As we rode through Ottsville, Paul pointed out what he said is a worthy coffee shop, Brig O'Doon, on Durham Road. We were only 8 miles out so we didn't stop.

Tom and I were both in search of a scenic photo op. We finally found one at the top of Creamery Road before it drops down to Tohickon Creek.

A few miles later we rode past an airport, where a handful of tandem sky divers were coming in for a landing.

We turned onto  freshly-paved road and my rear tire went violently flat. Tom said he saw something shoot out sideways. This was my fourth flat in as many hilly rides, the second rear one on a brand new tire. This time I'd hit the side wall. We used a dollar bill as a boot. "Damn it," I said. "I have about 60 miles on this tire."

Once we got moving again a bee collided with my right ear and stung me. I didn't stop, nor did I say anything.

Our planned rest stop was Down to Earth Cafe at the edge of Perkasie in a little strip mall. The cafe was closed, permanently. Half of us crossed the road to the Dunkin Donuts; the other half went for Gatorade at the CVS.  Before I ordered my coffee I went into the bathroom to look at my ear. The sting was on the rear edge, but my entire ear was already red and swelling. It didn't hurt so I didn't worry.

Somewhere after that we did not climb this hill:

Some of us began to ask if and when we'd see Lake Nockamixon. "I said we'd be going around the lake," Tom said, "not to it." Riding down to the marina would add too many miles for this hot day, he explained. "We'll see the northern end of it," he added.

On a busy overpass we did get a view.

Below us, out of sight, someone was piloting a remote-controlled speed boat, which, several of us agreed, would be fun for about five minutes. The thing screeched loud enough for us to hear it from the bridge.

Joe and I crossed the road to look at the lake from the other side.

We stopped again for more water at a convenience store on Route 611 before the ten miles back to Frenchtown. Tom warned us about the Red Circle of Death, his name for Red Cliff Road, which has, to his credit, a rather terrifying drop in the first hundred yards or so, before weaving its way back to the Delaware.

I'd been at the back of the pack the entire time, but my leg hadn't hurt at all.

Paul disappeared for a bit while the rest of us were cooling off and cleaning up in the parking lot. When he came back he said he'd been to Early Bird Espresso, and that I should go.

"I already had coffee today," I said. "One driving up here and one at the rest stop."

"And your point is?" Blake said. "It beats Dunkin Donuts."

"Next time." I wanted to be able to sleep. I was signed up for Plain Jim's Sunday recovery ride that would start at 8:00 a.m. at Six Mile Run.

Part Two: Early Morning Recovery

I drove with Kermit to Six Mile Run. The lot, usually loaded with mountain bikers, was nearly empty. Jim's ride was competing with a much-hyped Don Sprague Memorial Century and lord knows what else. I was the only one signed up, so off we went, stopping for pictures along the canal, which is apparently being dredged.

We rode through a part of Princeton's neighborhood I'd never seen: more giant houses on quiet streets. We rode up Carter and dropped down into Hopewell, choosing Brick Farm Market as our rest stop.  It wasn't crowded, which surprised us.

The bakery was selling donut pudding, some vile take on bread pudding. "I need to add this to my list of things that aren't food," I said. Chocolate-coated wasabi peas and lobster ice cream are already on the list.

We rode up 518 toward Hillsborough with the wind at our backs. I got home early enough to do my chores, do some homework, and get the rest of my Sunday out of the way.