How to Know Who Your Friends Are

Jim's Derailleur, Minus One Bolt

1 March 2020

Being a ride leader who is at once too slow and too fast, who climbs too many hills and takes all day to do it, I don't get big crowds on my rides.  I like it better that way; I get to know my regulars. For the most part, we play well together.

Even within our cozy group, there are some rides where one finds out who one's friends truly are.

Last Saturday was one of those rides. Having gone to Lambertville and Sergeantsville too many times recently, I decided we'd make the trip to Factory Fuel in Flemington. I usually drag this route out in early spring. We've had enough road rides under our belts this winter that we could handle this one early.

Ricky, as usual, started with me from home. Pete G, as usual, met us along the way. Andrew, Jack H, and Racer Pete were waiting at the Pig with Plain Jim.

The route took us into the Hopewell Valley then up the Sourland Mountain on Greenwood Road, the only road that goes straight over and down without a turn. It was the biggest and longest climb of the day, and we got it out of the way early.

We turned west on Wertsville Road. I warned the group that there was one more hill to contend with around the bend. It's the one between Linvale and Losey, the one with the Unionville Vineyard on the eastbound side.

We were grinding up the hill when I heard a clunk and Jim cursing. Andrew and I waited at the top while Jim walked up. His rear derailleur bolt had sheared clean off. There was nothing we could do but find him a ride home.

Jim didn't want to bother The Excellent Wife, so Pete G, who had doubled back and had an Uber account, ordered him up a ride.

"Sixteen minutes away," Pete said. By now everyone had come back to see what was going on. Jim took both wheels off his bike.

I stepped across the street to take pictures of the vineyard.

"You could wait in that chair," I offered. At the house next door, several people were milling about in the driveway. Not one looked our way, let alone offered any help.

At this point, Andrew and Racer Pete decided they couldn't wait sixteen minutes and left the ride. Jack, Pete, Ricky, and I stuck around. 

Finally, the car, driven by one Louis, pulled up. He took one look at us and scowled. "Can I use the trunk?" Jim asked. "My bike broke."

Uber Louis snarled, "No. I don't want grease all over my trunk. Sorry." There wasn't even time for any of us to think of a solution, like sacrificing Jim's jacket to lay the bike on. Uber Lois drove off, leaving us stranded once again.

Defeated, Jim called his wife, who agreed to pick him up.

"Don't wait for me," Jim said. 

"You sure?"

"I'm fine. Go!"

"Text me when she gets here," I said.

It wasn't long before we arrived at Factory Fuel, maybe half an hour. We spent a good amount of that time saying bad things about Uber Louis.

When I pulled out the bag with my wallet and phone, there was a message waiting for me. Jim was in the car, on his way back to Pennington.

Meanwhile, at the old Stangl factory, much was happening. There was live music, and a farmer's market inside the main space. Every table at Factory Fuel was taken, but it was warm enough for us to sit outside, in the sun, at a picnic table.

On the way back we went sideways up the mountain, taking Rileyville to Orchard to Linvale to Saddle Shop. I had to stop for the horses, as I always do, who were munching on hay, with the next ridge, and Flemington, behind them.

When Jim got home he set himself to fixing the Yellow Masarati, only to find that his spare derailleur wouldn't work with the system he had. So he placed an order for something that would work and got the Krakow Monster ready for his Six Mile Sunday ride.

I got Kermit ready, putting a mere 100 psi into the tires this time. The ride was much smoother. At some point, Bob had to fix a flat, and I looked up to see these neato pine cones over our heads.