Emery's Blueberry Farm
Part Three: #56 is What a Century Should Feel Like
The heat wave came back on Wednesday, just in time for glassblowing class. Outside the studio was a humid 90-something degrees. Inside was a dry 105. Between them were three exhaust fans. The trick was to find the current while the instructor was lecturing. The class of 5 had dwindled to 3, and one of our number, who had been welding in his sculpture studio, begged off as soon as we moved toward the furnace. The remaining two of us spent our time making mistakes until all of the clean punty rods were gone and the instructor declared that class was over. It was early still, but we had a homework assignment: draw what we saw in the studio.
"I can't draw," I warned him. I can, however, doodle and snark. At home I filled a page while I downed my third electrolyte drink* of the day.
The beauty of pencil is that I can erase my mistakes. I've found several since I made this drawing. I made corrections; this is the final draft, I hope.
But that's not why you came here. You came here to listen to me yammer on about Tom's Swamp Ride. He and I had a brief email exchange earlier in the week. My mind was too full of hot glass to think about a hot ride, and since Miss Piggy's replacement tire hadn't arrived I would have had to swap tires and spares in a messy circus of talcum powder and tools; Piggy has no spare wheels. I didn't have the mental energy for that, so Tom graciously planned a flat metric to New Egypt instead.
Well, a 64-mile ride from Mercer County Park is a 79-mile ride from my house, and all I would need to do is find 21 extra miles to redeem myself from early August's ill-fated century. All would depend on how I felt at the end of the official ride, of course, but I packed two sandwiches and five Nuun tablets* just in case.
I rode over by myself, Jack H being somewhere in Colorado even though he'd registered for Tom's ride. The two of them have, apparently, spent the summer needling each other.
Tom looked at me and said, "Going for a hundred today?"
"No. I don't know. We'll see."
Plain Jim was also traveling. In his place was the spare Jim, who I had only heard about and seen in a middle-fingered photo. Ricky had ridden in from home, as had Andrew. Joe M joined us again. Chris was there, wearing this year's Ride Leader jersey (it's good to see that the fit worked out, more or less, for at least one of us).
A handful of miles out we picked up Rebecca G, who was riding solo on her new, sparkling red Liv. The paint job on her bike absolutely pops. I was instantly envious, despite being on Kermit, who has the best paint job ever. (Here's a picture, but the photo doesn't do it justice.)
Chris, in his inimitable fashion, decided that there was something wrong with Kermit's cassette body. He said he saw it wiggle when I coasted. I checked and checked and checked again but didn't see a thing. I wasn't going to worry about it; the part was new. What did go wrong, though, happened as Rebecca and I were chatting on the little rise out on the east side of the Assunpink WMA. I tried to shift into the small ring but the front derailleur didn't move. This would not bode well if I were to go on for 100 miles.
I finally got the derailleur to move as we were coasting down a slight grade. Playing it safe, I stayed in the small ring, and was glad I did, because it was much less tiring there.
Rebecca left us in Imlaystown. We continued south towards New Egypt.
I even got a do-over with the longhorn cattle on Brindletown Road. They were huddled closer to the fence this time. Spare Jim stopped with me.
Emery's Blueberry Farm, usually packed, was empty. This being a holiday weekend and, for once, cool and dry, it wasn't too much of a surprise. I don't much like Emery's as a rest stop. The only available water is in small bottles, there's little else in the way of drinks, there's no coffee, and the bathroom is a porta-john. The muffins are good though. I also bought a frosted sugar cookie, hot-pink, in the shape of an octopus, and put it in my bag for later.
Outside was a herd of propane-tank pigs, some of them with wings.
This teaches us the important lesson that a thing can be at once cute and ugly.
Our next stop was at Saint Vladimir Memorial Church in Cassville. I'd taken pictures of the church before. It was the abandoned restaurant that caught my eye this time.
"Laura!" Tom called. "We need to take the picture for Jim!"
Ricky used his phone while we posed with heart-hands. Chris refused, hollering "Read between the lines!" instead.
I took a picture of the church.
Then the group posed again, more compliant this time.
We went north, through Turkey Swamp and up to Millstone. Tom had a second rest stop in mind that he wouldn't divulge until we were nearly there.
"We're going to where Roy's used to be."
This is a sentence that only makes sense if you've been riding in the area for more than 7 years.
Where Roy's used to be is now the Copper Ladle. It was closed for the holiday. We rode across the street to Vesuvio's.
I was still feeling good. I decided to go for the hundred miles. From Millstone we only had 11 back to the park. I followed Tom to his house instead. There, I pet his dog, chatted with his wife, filled my water bottle, and ate the hot-pink octopus sugar cookie.
"Best octopus I've ever eaten," I said, and pushed off towards Allentown. I rode through the center of town and up past the lake, heading for Stonebridge Deli or 85 miles, whichever came first. They arrived at the same time and the deli was closed, so I turned back and stopped at Bruno's instead. A bought a drink and a new pack of Nuun tablets*. Jim Bruno and I chatted for a few minutes. I was the first person in the shop in hours; Allentown had been dead quiet all day too. "I do better on rainy days," he said. "People get bored."
With the wind at my back on Gordon Road, which hardly ever happens, I switched back into my big ring, which did happen. Near the overpass I tried to shift down to the small ring, which didn't happen until I got to the descent, when it did happen. I decided it would be best to stay in the small ring for the ten remaining miles home.
Before I cleaned myself off I put Kermit up on the work stand. I'd had mung in the doins as Jim had so eloquently put it, once before. I dribbled some chain oil on the underside of the derailleur and let it sit while I cleaned myself off. An hour or so later I tried to shift gears. Nothing. I flipped Kermit over and lubricated the other side. Jack and I went out for pizza at Nomad. I tried shifting again when we came back. Nothing.
So Kermit went to Hart's on Sunday, where Oscar proclaimed the derailleur dead. I'm fond of saying that, in the time I've had Kermit, I've changed everything on the frame except the seat post and the front derailleur. It's been more than 40,000 miles. I suppose the seat post will shatter any day now.
Jack and I walked around Doylestown in the afternoon. In the evening I did more glassblowing homework (those videos make it look so damned easy!) and got Rowlf the Colnago ready for the Memorial Day All-Paces ride.
Part Four: All-Paces at a Reasonable Pace
Cheryl, in town for a few days and without a car, met me about a mile from home and we rode to Mercer County Park together. She was on John Powers' old Cannondale. Now that he's dead we've told her that she can't ever get rid of it. It's a heavy little thing, but I was sure that my old Colnago weighed more.
In the years that Cheryl's been gone a lot of new potholes have cropped up on Franklin Corner Road. I made sure to ride in front of her so that she wouldn't fall in.
We got to the park early. There was already a big turnout, with at least three C+ rides going out. I wasn't in any mood to try to keep up with the B group, which, given the time of year, would probably be well into B+ territory. Ron M was offering a C+/B- ride around the Assunpink. Cheryl chose a Team Social Security C+. When I got around to signing into Ron's ride a handful of Hill Slugs were already there, which was good because I hadn't seen Pete or Bob in a while. Tom, Chris, and Joe M were on the ride too. I hadn't seen Mark H since last year's Event century. Winter Larry was among us too. We rolled out as a group of 15.
It was hella humid. I was dripping sweat just standing in the parking lot.
I spent the ride running my mouth as much as moving my legs. That's de rigeur for an All-Paces ride. Even though the route was short, Ron took us to Stonebridge for a rest stop. I was glad for this, as I was nearly out of water.
I rested Rowlf against a large shrub. I took off my helmet and glasses, and then my soaking wet gloves. Somewhere between refilling the bottles and rescuing the glasses, which had fallen into the bush, I lost my rear view mirror. I didn't notice until we were far enough away from the deli that it wasn't worth turning back.
Riding without a mirror is like riding half blind. Already half deaf, I rely on the mirror to know what's coming up behind me, because the crappy hearing aids I wear on the road don't work particularly well. Unable to see the group behind me, I wound up in the front part of the pack, and on Gordon Road we broke apart. At the end of it we merged for a while with another group coming back to the park. In typical flatlander Freewheeler fashion we finished the ride in fragments, trickling back to the lot in groups of two or three.
Ira was walking around with a tray of melting cookies. I drank instead.
"It's hot," Cheryl said. "Let's go." I was more than willing to push off again, not having cooled down enough to make starting up again feel like work.
"I lost my mirror," I told her.
"Uh oh!"
"I have a spare at home."
"I have a house full of spares," she said.
"I keep spare everything," I agreed. You can't have too many tubes, cartridges, gloves, glasses, or mirrors. Or Nuun tablets*.
Without a mirror I didn't want to ride as far as 206, where I'd have to maneuver into a turn lane, so I didn't ride back to where Cheryl is staying. Instead I turned on Princeton Pike, where I'd be safely in the wide shoulder.
So that's the past two weeks. I'm in the glassblowing studio tomorrow. Class is on Wednesday. I still have more textbook reading to do. It wouldn't hurt to watch that how-to-make-a-stem video again either. Moxie isn't lying on the book anymore (he's moved to my other side), so I have no more excuses. 'Bye for now.
(*Nuun is working wonders for me; your mileage may vary.)
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