Tom's Fugawi Headwinds Ride

Sarnoff Campus, Not the Millstone Bypass

22 December 2018

I was riding Beaker, carrying a 6 mm hex wrench, and hoping to get the last kink out of the new build. The trip from home to the park, with a tailwind, was enough to let me know I needed to tilt the handlebar forward a smidge. 

When I saw the crowd at the East Picnic Area I completely forgot about the adjustment.

Knowing we'd be battling a strong wind, Tom had hatched a plan to ride northwest, dead into it, from Mercer County Park.  He promised a bike path and Sarnoff too, the latter because he'd been there two weeks ago on another bike ride without taking pictures.

Eighteen years ago (yikes!) I was part of a panel that met every other week for over two years. We were convened to come to a consensus on the contentious Millstone Bypass, a hideous road that would have cut through the Sarnoff property along the Millstone River, arced over Route 1 within 500 feet of the most heavily traveled segment of the D&R Canal towpath in Princeton, and popped out somewhere near Alexander Road. Yeah, no. We had our own spotted owl moment after a bald eagle sighting led to a birdwatcher finding a threatened owl's nest at a crucial junction on the Sarnoff property over Bear Brook. Our cut-and-cover plan became the preferred alignment of the Penns Neck Area Environmental Impact Statement we helped write. At our final meeting we were told that the Federal Highway Administration (they're in charge of US Route 1) couldn't afford the alignment, so if NJ and Sarnoff wanted a bypass they'd have to start all over again. The NJ DOT, with the institutional memory of a fruit fly, has attempted on several occasions to suggest improvements for the congested Penns Neck Area, only to have those of us who remember stuff show up to remind them that there already is a plan.

Anyway, that's why I wanted to see the Sarnoff property, home of the historic Sheep Wash area of the Millstone River, home of Native American artifacts, and home of a pair of long-eared owls. The building itself is historic because that's where the transistor was invented. 

First, though, we had to get so lost in some park in West Windsor, where Ralph (14,000 miles this year!) wondered if Tom was drawing a Christmas tree with his route. I had no idea where we were or which way we were facing. Chris rightly called all of us "fugawied," as in "where the fuck are we?"  

Joe, who rarely says anything, said, "Let's just get back on the fucking road."

"Hey, Tom," I called. We were stopped, yet again, at some park road or path crossing or something. "Joe says to get back on the fucking road."

It took us another few wrong turns before we got back onto the fucking road.

Thanks, Jim, for the map.

Somehow we got out of there before February. At an impromptu potty break some miles later I remembered the wrench and loosened the handlebar. It slipped forward and I moved it back. "I have no idea if I've fixed it now," I said to Tom. I hadn't brought a pen to mark the former spot; I had, however, noticed the position of the cue sheet strap, which was now a few millimeters forward from where it had been. I got lucky; the adjustment was spot on.

We got smacked around by the headwind, a steady 17-20 mph with 26 mph gusts, as we made our way out of Plainsboro into South Brunswick and down to the canal. There was a brief drizzle as well.

Our rest stop was at Jim's go-to deli, the Bagel Barn in Montgomery. The place was jam-packed. I ran into someone from a lab a few doors down from the one I work in, and we got talking bike stuff. At work we barely even acknowledge each other: she's a lab head; I keep my distance. As I sat down with a cookie (the only thing that wouldn't have taken me ten minutes to wait for) and a too-hot-to-drink coffee, Pete and I discussed "bike face" versus "resting lab face" as an explanation.

Then there was more battering as we crossed Route 206 and climbed up Cherry Hill. Beaker has 32 rear teeth, and I needed them today. I've never had a new build shift this smoothly. Campagnolo  and Michael at Wheelfine for the win.

We wound our way through Princeton. I was tempted to leave the group when we reached Route 27; I could have finished the day with 50 miles. But no, I wanted to see Sarnoff.  Tom told us what we were about to do: "We're going to cross Route 1 at Harrison."

Jim said, "We're going to cross Route 1. At Harrison Street."

"Yes."

"We're going to cross Route 1. At Harrison Street."

"We're going to cross Route 1 at Harrison Street."

So we crossed Route 1 at Harrison Street and walked our bikes around a chain-link fence. From all the talk during the EIS hullabaloo I was given to understand that there were stunning views of the Millstone from the Sarnoff driveway. Not so much, not even in winter. We followed the road, which, like the building, appeared mostly abandoned, around to a field of old satellite antennae.

I got a shot of the sky while we were stopped.

As if Harrison wasn't enough, we were now on Washington Road in Princeton Junction. Tom appeared to be leading us directly to the train station. "He's not gonna make us ride through the tunnel, is he?" Pete asked me.

"The Dinky's not running," I said. "There's a place where we can cross the tracks." Which we did.

And then we headed for the tunnel.

That got us to the quiet side of Alexander Road, which we crossed. Tom led us through back streets and got us to the part of West Windsor where all of the roads look exactly the same.

I could have peeled off when we got to one of the Village Roads -- East Village, West Village, New Village, they're interchangeable -- but I stuck with the group for three more miles back to the park.

Ricky and Tom hadn't driven to the park either, so I followed them back out again until they turned east on Something Village Road and I turned west. Tom's parting line was about him and Ricky enjoying the tailwind.

I crept along, spinning in low gear and getting nowhere fast, for another eight miles. The rest stop cookie was well out of my system and I was thinking about lunch.

Tomorrow I'll lead a recovery ride. A short, slow, wind-free recovery ride.