Cortados and Towpath Fog

Delaware and Raritan Canal 

Holcombe Jimison Farmstead Museum 

Lambertville

28 September 2025

After Our Jeff's "Lahaska Loop" yesterday, I drove Fozzie up to the Holcombe Jimison Farmstead Museum parking lot to join Ken W and Ron M on the towpath to Frenchtown.

I'm not sure about how many years Our Jeff has led the Lahaska ride. I've done it for three years now. This time, he opted for a different bakery. The ride wouldn't be as hellishly hilly as it was two years ago, and it would be a relatively short 37 miles. Several days before the ride, Pete suggested we could get 12  extra miles by starting from his house. He lives 6-ish miles away from me. Obviously, I did the dumb thing and rode to meet him, Heddy, Rickety, and Tom in the center of Pennington. From there, it was mostly downhill to the PA side of Washington Crossing.

The rest of the group was Premeds plus Blob. We lost Martin along the way when his chain broke. 

Having begrudgingly attended most of the Wednesday Premed rides this year, I almost know which road leads to which now, but I'm still a long way off from being able to piece a route together in my head. 

The bakery Our Jeff wanted to try was Mama Hawk's. We arrived at 10:30 a.m. The line was at the door. At the time, we didn't realize that this line did not end at a counter six feet in. Some of our group decided to walk down to our old watering hole, the Lucky Cupcake. The rest of us waited in line. 

And waited.

And waited.

It was a good 15 mintes before we could place our drink orders. Being with Heddy, I was going to go for a cortado. The menu board described it as "4 shots." Now, I'm no barista, and I can maybe tell you the difference between a cortado, a macchiato, and a cappucino. But I can tell you that a traditional cortado, served in a cup the size one spits into at the dentist's office, does not contain four shots of espresso.

So we asked. The server seemed confused, as if it would not be possible to make a cortado with one shot of espresso and a dab of steamed milk. "Can we split it then?" we asked. Someone more knowledgable came over at that point and told us she'd split it. We each got a cookie, and I took the receipt to wait for our number, 23, to be called. 

"Seven," a barista called out.

Did I mention that the place was packed? 

Seven? How long was this going to take?

Jeff looked concerned. He hadn't ordered a drink. He went outside to notify the rest of the group while Heddy, Mike V, and I waited. Mike was number 25. We all ate our sugary things while we waited.

Fifteen minutes later, our drinks were ready. They handed us two small cups of espresso, no milk. I asked about the milk, took my espresso, and left the building. At this point, the line stretched out the door, through the front plaza, and to the curb. I was baffled. 

Heddy came out a few minutes later with her espresso in one hand and a cup of steamed milk in the other.

Tom had already left because he had somewhere to be in the afternoon. The rest of the group was getting restless. I downed the rest of my espresso (now with a spot of milk, a macchiato) like a shot of whiskey.

It was understood by all that we would not be returning to Mama Hawk's.

We'd climbed the bigger hills in the first half; the return trip was easier. The caffeine and sugar helped too. We got spread out on the final seven miles, which were mostly downhill. This was the way most of the Wednesday rides ended, a macho mile. This is where I traditionally drop in to the big ring and hammer, having survived another Premed outing and looking forward to thin-crust pizza at It's Nutts. Yesterday I didn't hammer because I still had almost 20 miles to go.

The ride back to Pete's was mostly uphill, but not steep, and with flat breaks. I went all the way back to his house because Heddy had treats from France for me that I carried home in my pockets. I ended with 59.5 miles. I did not Griff it up because my GPS had taken its time finding the satellites when I left the house, and I didn't know my real distance until I uploaded the ride later.

Anyway, back to the towpath ride.

I left home at 7:45 a.m. and took I-295 north. As the highway sloped downhill towards the Delaware River, a wall of fog appeared, so thick that the exit sign to Route 29 was obscured. 

I love fog, and I was happy that it hadn't burnt off in the 20 minutes it took to get to the north side of Lambertville, just south of the Route 202 bridge. As soon as I parked the car, I grabbed my phone and took pictures.

There were water striders in the canal, so many of them that it looked like rain.

Ken and Ron lead towpath rides so often that they know to stop at Prallsville Mills for a bathroom break. I took the opportunity to take a few more pictures as the fog was burning off.

Halfway to Frenchtown, as the feeder canal ended, so did the fog. It wasn't obvious, though, because the towpath up there is under an arching canopy of trees. It was peaceful. We were quiet. The only sound was the crunching of grit under our wide tires.

We didn't stop at the Bridge Cafe (where the bike rack has mysteriously disappeared); we went down the road to the Perfect Day Cafe.

I ordered a cortado. It was done perfectly, in a little glass, and I didn't have to wait. I had time to drink it slowly, too.

On the way back, I spent a lot of time talking with another rider who had come from Whitehouse Station. We were comparing notes on the evil hills up his way. Which is to say, I think they're evil and he thinks they're fun. We did agree that Rockaway Road is the best road. 

The sun was out when we got back to the parking lot. It reflected off the canal onto the Route 202 bridge.