Delaware and Raritan Canal
north of Washington Crossing, NJ
11 January 2025
After two weeks in London, I had another week off before going back to work again on January 2. This is the longest vacation from work I've ever taken. And I still have dozens of vacation days to burn.
Jack caught a slow-rolling cold in London, and he still felt out of sorts the day after we got back. We were supposed to hang out with my friends from grad school, an annual tradition going back some 30 years (yikes!). We put if off for a few days, which freed me up to put air in Janice's tires and go out for an afternoon bike ride with Heddy. I had 47 miles to get in before the end of the year in order to reach my self-imposed minimum. It's been a bad year that way. While my climbing miles dwarfed my flat miles (a reversal from the usual), very few of my rides were longer than 50 miles (not typical for me).
Heddy and I did a mellow muffin run to Boro Bean, where we found John K about to leave. He went back in and sat with us. We followed him on his route home until we reached a point where we'd run into sunset if we stayed out any longer. After I got home, I felt as if I'd slammed into a wall. Everything hurt. I didn't know if it was jet lag or if I'd finally caught Jack's cold.
It was the latter. At first I only felt run-down, which, again, could have been jet lag.
I had to find 13 miles before the end of the year. We were meeting my grad school friends at our house at noon. There would be time for a quick ride. I swapped out Janice's carbon wheels with slick tires for the new set of cheap wheels with gravel tires. Yes, I have a gravel bike, but it's easier to bring extra wheels to Acadia National Park than it is to try to stuff two bikes into my car. As soon as I set out, I could feel the thousand-dollar difference between the two wheelsets. The slightly knobby tires made for a rougher ride.
I went up to Pennington, to Terra Momo, to buy two sticks of pretzel bread. "Two dollars," the clerk said.
"That's it?" I was so used to London prices that I didn't think anything could be had for two dollars. We got into a conversation about London prices and crowds. She has family there, and visited in March. It was crowded then, too, she said.
I got 15 miles in and made my goal for the year.
I felt a small tickle in my throat in the wee hours of the morning of December 30. It went away, so I continued with my plan to go on a short hike with a friend from South Jersey.
We'd tried to get to the Goat Hill Overlook in November, but the road to the park was closed for tree-trimming. It was open when we tried again. The temperature was unseasonably warm, but there was a strong wind. My biking buddies were out in it somewhere southeast of Allentown, NJ, while Gina and I followed the paper map I'd printed and took the long way around to the overlook.
There'd been a lot of rain, finally. I warned her that the trail might be muddy. There isn't much soil over the diabase rock layer in the Sourlands. Water ponds or floods.
The map I had wasn't quite matching the trail intersections we found. There were low blazes aplenty, though, so we never felt as if we were lost. We knew that some of the side trails would lead to overlooks that weren't the official Goat Hill Overlook.
The first one we found wasn't much more than a gap in the trees with a small rock outcrop.
From there, I saw another outcrop that we could probably get to from the main trail. It was close to the first one. The view southwest towards the Delaware River and Pennsylvania was clearer.
We went back to the main trail again. A hiker behind us called out to tell me I'd dropped my map. Good thing he found it, because we followed him on a left turn and wound up not where we thought we were headed. Consulting the map, we turned around again.
Half an hour later, we found another side trail that led to the edge of a slope where people had painted some of the rocks. I scrambled down through the boulders and leaves to get a better look.
The northern view was still behind trees.
We could make out the wing dam south of Lambertville, and the condos on the Pennsylvania side (hello, Mighty Mike!).
I got closer to the grafiti. From the trail, it looked like a target. Up close, it revealed itself to be an eyeball.
The trail we were on ended at the main path to the official Goat Hill Overlook. We followed it a short way uphill. There were people on this trail, so we knew it was the one that is a mile out and back from the parking lot to the overlook.
To verify that we were at the official overlook, I took a picture of the sign that says "overlook."
The closer bridge is the one that connects Lambertville, NJ to New Hope, PA. The far bridge is the one that takes US 202 across the Delaware River.
The Lambertville-New Hope bridge is under construction. If you zoom in, you can see that there's only westbound traffic.
Before my pretzel run, I'd been hoping for a regular ride with the usual folks. Tom said he had "a stupid idea" for a New Year's Eve ride. He suggested we go to Belmar from the Manasquan Reservoir. I was all for his stupid idea. So were a bunch of others. It would only be about 30 miles, but I hadn't been to the shore all year.
At the driest point in our drought, the Manasquan Reservoir was down to 49% capacity. The recent rain had elevated the water level a little bit, but not by much. After getting my bike ready, I took some pictures.
Somewhere near the Manasquan Inlet, we passed a marina. I pulled in for a few photos.
We reached the inlet. I like the beach best when there's nobody on it. A few brave surfers were the only ones.
During the regular season, bikes aren't permitted on the seaside path. We rode north with impunity.
There was a Christmas tree on the beach.
Belmar Beach was equally deserted.
Heddy took a seat at the bench, facing the water, arms resting on the back of the bench. I joined her, and decided to turn around, hanging my legs over the back. Tom and Martin both captured the moment. Tom got me in action and let us know later that he decided to spare me the humiliation of posting it in his blog. I have no shame.
"Laura Looking Weird" by Tom Hammell
Tom was busy writing something in the sand by the side of the boardwalk.
"Insane Bike Posse 4 Eva" perhaps?
Nah. He's much too polite for that.
"Happy new year."
The way back was short, but, a few miles from the end, I ran out of energy. Heddy and Pete zipped off ahead. I didn't feel like chasing them.
We passed by the western end of the Manasquan Reservoir a few miles from the end. Tom and I stopped for pictures. "The water level is about a foot higher than it was," he said. This is the place where I always stop for photos. Normally, only the upper half of the tree trunks protrude from the water.
People were fishing from the mud flats that don't normally exist.
The drought was really obvious a little farther along.
"We should make this a tradition," I suggested.
I finished the year 50 miles over my minimum goal, after finding a 6-mile discrepancy between my spreadsheet records and what my commuting bike's odometer read. I hope to do better in 2025.
To start off the year, I went on Ron's annual New Year's Day towpath ride. It was cold and windy. The sky was murky, with low-level clouds below the higher ones, as seen from the banks of the Delaware River at Washington Crossing, NJ. (The ride description had said to start from the PA side, and I'd driven around like a dork until another confused rider connected with Ron and we went back to the NJ side. Good thing I arrived way early.)
The group got spread out, with some folks on mountain bikes. We stopped to collect ourselves. I pulled out my camera.
As we approached Lambertville, I kept one eye on the ridge above us. Could I find one of the Goat Hill overlooks?
A break in the trees, a few rocks jutting out; maybe this was the first one we found?
The general store in Stockton was open. I made what Winter Larry called "jet fuel," a mix of coffee, milk, and hot chocolate from a machine. This is the best way to drink coffee that one can safely assume will not be good on its own.
The jet fuel helped on the return trip. So did the slight tailwind.
I went back to work the next day. The building was a ghost town.
Two days later, I led a ride on the towpath from Alexander Road in Princeton. Tom had suggested a short towpath ride from Washington Road. I thought there would be more parking at Turning Basin Park, and I seemed to remember a bathroom there as well. I figured we'd get about 20 miles in. The air was hovering just below freezing, with a wind chill on top of it.
Tom wanted to go as far as the Griggstown Causeway. I hadn't been on this part of the towpath in a while. I remembered the first spillway, the one with the widely-spaced rocks that I'm convinced will snag my tire and send me flying. I've never fallen, but I still hate it.
There are two more spillways between there and wherever it was we turned around. They weren't as bad.
Tom went back when we reached Griggstown. The rest of us decided to keep going until we reached 10 miles. I got chatting with Pete and didn't check my odometer until we were almost 11 miles in. We found a wide spot to turn around.
We weren't far from Princeton when we came across two guys clearing a large branch from the towpath. Pete went right on past them. They'd already moved the bulk of it out of the way. I laid Fozzie down and did my best to help move the branches out of the path. I looked up, trying to figure out where the branch had fallen from. Not until after the ride, when Tom mentioned having come across it and moved some branches, and Martin posting a photo, that I learned it was a full tree that had come down.
"Tree Down!" by Martin Griff
We arrived at Alexander Road in time to see Tom driving out. We had 21.5 miles.
"Anyone want to Griff it up to 30?" Martin asked. Um, no. He and Henry went on south. The rest of us went home.
In the end, Martin wrote, "We only Griffed it up to 23." I responded, "Well geez, that hardly seems worth it," but I know every mile counts.
By this point, I was full of snot and coughing. I decided I really should take a day off from exercise. There was snow in the forecast for Monday. Figuring I'd end up at home, I went into the lab and worked Sunday instead. Monday's storm turned into a nothingburger, and I ended up working from home all day anyway.
When I work from home, I work at my laptop next to a bureau that holds a pile of Muppets, some from bikes I no longer own, others as spares for the ones I do. I looked at the pile, at Handless Janice and her full-handed backup. Janice the bike has been sporting a button with Janice's face on it. The button has been rained on. The edges have browned. The face has faded. This pin went to Canada. This pin reminds me of self-inflicted anxiety.
I wanted the old Janice back, but with only one full Janice left, I'd need a backup. I went onto eBay and looked around.
I took Friday morning off to make up for it, and rode around Pennington in sub-freezing air with Pete, Rickety, and Martin. The plan was to start from Terra Momo in Pennington at 10:00. I left from home on my bike, into the wind, struggling to keep a decent cadence up what isn't much of a hill on Lawrenceville-Pennington Road. Not until I was six miles into the 7 mile ride did I realize I'd been in the big ring the whole time. Derp.
We were all cold enough that Pete cut out the last few miles. I dashed into Terra Momo for a couple sticks of pretzel bread, than rode home with a tailwind.
On the front doorstep was a package from eBay: a new Janice for Janice. This one is smaller than the one who lost her hands. This one bends at the waist and has moveable arms. After I finished working, I gave her electrical tape leggings and secured her to the saddlebag with copper wire. I also ordered two more, in case this one falls off.
New year, new Janice. I just want to have fun this time around. Janice says, "Fer sure!"
