Interlude: Portland, Oregon

29 March and April 1 2008



I'm out here because I followed Jack to yet another Eighteenth Century Literature conference. I've been doing this long enough that his friends are now my friends also. I'm no longer just, "This is my wife, Laura."

The crowd this time includes Dale and Sean, Nora, Sharon, Mary, and Kevin. We're a few shy of the full posse. Brycchan decided not to spend 28 hours on a plane and Rebecca is up to her eyeballs in job interviews.

I came prepared this time. I searched the city for bead stores and found a few I could get to by public transit. I had a pile of projects ready to go. Then I got email from Grace Lampwork Beads: her show schedule included the Bead Expo in Portland on the days I'd be there. That's all I needed to hear. I made sure to pack a set of her beads that wasn't already in the project queue. If I use some up, I can get more (we beaders are good at rationalizing).

Lately Dale has been my Patron, my Client, my Best and Only Customer. Every time she finishes grading a stack of papers, she goes to my Etsy store (I'm truly without scruples). I can tell when the stack has been particularly big because she'll have bought something. For the first time since I started this business a year ago, I'm less than $100 away from breaking even.

So I have that pre-bead show excitement that makes me a little giddy, and I have two days to ride that wave before the show.

One of the first things we notice when we get to the hotel is that two of the four elevators are out of service. With our room on the eighteenth floor, this gives us a lot of waiting time. I get a good picture from the hallway window:



And another one of the carpet in the hallway (it makes a good cell phone wallpaper; try it):




Meanwhile there's a city to explore. Sean and I leave Dale and Jack to their sessions and wander down to the Willamet river. The other side is industry; this side is humanity. The cherry trees are in bloom even though it was snowing half an hour ago. We walk across the Steel Bridge. Traffic signals for pedestrians suggest that this bridge opens, but we can't figure out how as we walk across it.



Portland has a reputation for being alternative-transportation friendly, and it doesn't disappoint. We walk all the way to the Convention Center in twenty minutes on broad sidewalks. Bikers of all kinds -- messenger wannabes on their fixies, roadies, hybrids, and one older woman on a cruiser -- pass us along the way. There is a light rail system that loops through the city. It's free to ride within the downtown section, even to the Convention Center.

Our first night out is spent in a crowd of ten. Somebody has asked the hotel concierge where we should go for dinner. I follow blindly and we wind up somewhere whose name I can't even remember. There's a lot of drinking going on, and the food is pretty good. A few people have ordered the "Scottish wild salmon," which we learn really has been flown in from halfway around the world. This gives me a chance to get up on my sustainability soapbox and preach the word about carbon footprints. And in a city like this. Shame.

Sharon and Nora are close friends who don't get to see each other often. When they're together it's like a performance, even without Brycchan (when he's with them, it's even more impenetrable and twice as hilarious). Kevin leans into me and murmurs, "It's my fault. I introduced them." I laugh so loud people look at me, but I offer no explanation.

Dale, Sean, and I agree to meet for an early morning workout before breakfast. Jack has an 8 a.m. business breakfast anyway. I've forgotten my ankle brace, but I run on the treadmill without getting hurt. In a mirrored stretching room we complain about the extra fee to use this place. It cost me $10 for this measly pseudo-gym; it cost Sean and Dale $15 as a couple.

But the workout has woken me up. Time for breakfast and then on a hunt for the Evil Bean. There's nothing like going to a bead show with a caffeine high. It's even better when the blood sugar crashes but the caffeine is still going. All rational thought evaporates and one is left with pure bead greed.

We're given a table right behind Jack and the publisher he's talking to. He doesn't even turn around when I scratch his back; he doesn't even introduce us to this Very Important Person. I'm not sure he has the chance. The woman has not stopped talking since we sat down.

Sharon emerges and takes the fourth seat. Nora is still asleep, recovering from more drinking and smoking than she's used to now that she's entered the Mommy Vortex. Jack eventually joins us once the publisher stops talking and leaves.

After breakfast I run into Kevin in the lobby as I'm pondering strong coffee from a worthy shop. Sean told me that Peet's is the place to go for strong brew. Kevin and I walk in the rain in search of it. I passed it yesterday but only vaguely remember where it is. Somewhere between here and the river. We're close to giving up hope when Kevin spots a hotel entrance. "We can always ask the doorman," he says. I reply, "He'll probably say, 'It's next door, you dope.'" Which it turns out to be; we see the sign before we get to the hotel and avoid embarrassment.

As for Peet's version of aged Sumatra: Meh. Rojo's is better. We walk back to the hotel with our drinks and hang out with Dale and Sean, who are working a book table. I wait for the caffeine to hit.

Before I go to the the bead show we're all going to Powell's book store, known across the country as the book store to go to in Portland. We descend upon it in a mob of nine. This independent store takes up a city block; we're ready to compare it to the Strand in New York City. Powell's is better organized and more spacious, which really isn't fair considering NYC real estate, but in the end I have more books in my hands than Jack has, and that's saying something. We regroup in the store's coffee shop. Still caffeinated from before, I stick with water and a sandwich.

Our gang trickles out towards the hotel. Jack, with some free time, is taking our books back and searching for Pinot Noir, the wine this part of Oregon is known for. I'm headed to the bead show.

On my way I'm looking around, trying to distinguish Portland from other younger cities I've been to. How do I know I'm here and not somewhere else? There's not much obvious at first, but the walkability, traffic lights for bikers, the seemingly few cars, the free downtown light rail, and the prevalent recycling bins let me know I'm sure not in Philadelphia.

I cross the Burnside Street bridge over the Willamet River and get a good view of the steel bridge. Aha! It's a lift bridge. From the walkway underneath the span, we couldn't see the gears. I send Sean a picture with the message, "The steel bridge lifts I think."



As I approach the Convention Center, I see something that convinces me I'm on the west coast.



[I'm wrong. I found out there's one in Cherry Hill, NJ.]

I pay for my Bead Expo ticket and dive into the show. My first stop is Olive Glass, where Lark Dalton, friendly as ever, talks with me for what must be at least twenty minutes. I learn that he's worked with Dale Chihuly. It doesn't get any cooler than that. With some restraint, I leave Lark's booth with a couple of small beads, a spiral, a necklace form, two small bracelet forms, and a huge, sparkly, dicrhoic bracelet form that will be tough to put up for sale. [Check my Etsy.com page; they'll be up there sooner or later. An older one, the "Big Purple Bracelet," is up now.]

I'm looking for Joanne Morash, who is supposed to be here. I know her through my college roommate, Chris, who knows her through the bead artist scene in Boston. Joanne moved south a few years ago, but I see her at the Boston and New York City shows at least once each year. I'm looking forward to confusing her toady. It might take her a second to realize I'm on the wrong coast. But her table is empty. There's not even a sign with her name on it there.

Next to it, though, is a find. Nightside Studios: Beads with eyes! And the artist is a character, too. I get talking to him for a while. Here are some blurry shots of his table:





That red one on the upper right side of the second picture is the one I take home. I don't plan to string him right away. Fright Wig will live on my windowsill for a while, I think.

On to look for Grace, who is somehow going to be here and in New York City at the same time. Bummer. She's in NYC. I like talking to her. She's another super-friendly person, which makes buying beads from her a lot of fun. Once I bought up almost all of one particular pattern after I'd sold some finished pieces from the same beads. "You're crazy," she laughed. What can I say? They're still my favorites. See?

I want to show everyone my haul from the bead show, so I carry it in my jacket pocket to dinner. The concierge has set us up at a Lebanese restaurant. We sit at a huge round table. The lighting is too dim for me to show off the beads. But I have temporarily strung Fright Wig on some gold chain and I'm delighting in unzipping my jacket enough to unleash him and elicit giggles and screams of delight. I pass him around the table. Nora sits him on her head like a tiara.

The waiter serves us family style. We're stuffed to the gills before the main courses even arrive. A belly dancer comes out. Nora says, "I want to live here." As I watch the dancer I'm jealous of her confidence. What looks like a dance of seduction really is a show of power.

Back at the hotel, before we dive into the bar, I get a chance to show off the beads I bought today.

As the night wears on, I feel a scratch in my throat. I can't tell if it's from all the talking I did today, something I ate, or a virus. As I climb into bed, though, it's obvious I'm sick. My throat feels worse and I'm having trouble sleeping.

Saturday morning I wake to a fever, but I still want to see the Saturday Market. Jack will be pretty busy today. I text Sean. He and Dale are trying to carve out some free time from her schedule. I want to climb the hill I see from my window. There's a rose garden up there, and a view of Mount Hood on a good day. But I feel as if I'm walking through soup. I force myself to stay inside and make jewelry until it's time to meet Jack and go to the market.

The Saturday Market is an open-air affair. I'm picturing something along the lines of a farmers' market, with fresh food and homemade crafts. But what we get is a miniature version of London's Camden Town without the charm. We're older by 20 years than most of the people there. I do score some hand-made, organic catnip toys for Burnaby, Cleio, Sean and Dale's duo, and Rebecca's pair.

We buy lunch from some grease trucks, which leaves us unsatisfied, so we stop in a coffee shop. I get some on ice. I know I'm sick now. I can't even feel it going down, and it does nothing to make me feel better. My walking pace has slowed to what most people call normal. I want to take a nap, but when I get to the room the beads beckon. Sean calls. Dale is in a session but he's itching to get out. I meet him in the lobby, where we run into Kevin, who tells us he had a migraine last night. We're both dragging. We shuffle off to Peet's and sink into squishy leather chairs. I ponder the hill again. Hail starts to fall and doesn't let up for a good fifteen minutes. That settles that. I can't move anyway.

Jack and I have been invited to dinner by an emeritus professor from Penn. The other guests are all high-powered strangers to me. I don't know how I'm going to hold my head up around those people. I figure I'm in for a night of witnessing some high-end snobbery.

Back at the hotel we run into Dale outside of the conference area, and Jack wants to go to a session, so I follow him in. If I'm going to feel like crap I might as well have something to distract me. As luck would have it, two of the panel's four presenters have canceled. The first paper leaves me fidgeting to stay awake. The second one is entertaining.

After the session ends, Dale says, "My brain is full." I start to ask her if I can impose on her. Before the question is halfway out, she says, "Come to dinner with us tonight." I'm grateful and relieved. Jack, who says his brain is full, is pleased that I've found something more entertaining to do. We head downstairs for a snack. I can feel every fiber in my jeans against my legs. The blast of cold air in the stairwell pierces like a knife. I want juice.

We find Kevin downstairs. He doesn't have plans tonight either and he's not into being alone. "Perfect," we say. "You're coming with us." Jack leaves us so he can pack before going to dinner.

We agree to meet again in a few hours. I go upstairs to pack. Jack is still there, finishing up. I need to complete a necklace before I can put anything away. This has been a productive trip: I've made six pieces. Number two is around Sharon's wrist, a belated birthday present. Numbers one and six are here:



For dinner the concierge has booked us at a pub that Sean wanted to get to. We tip the guy for hooking us up three nights in a row. It's a moderate walk to the restaurant. I'm relieved when Dale says, "I want to ride the free thing!" So we ride the free thing, not entirely sure where to get off, but we figure it out. Dinner involves sweet potato fries, a salad, and some stringy, cheesy, sort of hash-browny potatoes. Through my fever, the potatoes hit the spot. We take the free thing home again, Dale and I shivering in the cold. "It's going to take hours for me to warm up," I tell her.

Pioneer Courthouse Square is surrounded by tall buildings, one of which is lit up and reflects in the windows of a skyscraper next door. Dale gets a real photo. I get this:





We say our goodbyes on the elevator. Jack and I have an early morning flight back home. I shower, pack, and wait for Jack to come back. I toss and turn in my sleep, getting even less than the six hours we have, and wake with the fever still going strong. I take it all the way home and don't shake it until the next morning, in time to go back to work. Now the cough sets in.

I wanted to write all this from Portland, but in the daze, all I got out that I didn't delete later was this:

"Start with a fervor, end with a fever."

That's about right.

The Big Ass Bag, or A Lesson in Stupidity

22 March 2008

OK, so I'm getting Kermit ready to ride and I go to put the saddle bag on the new saddle. It's a clip-on bag that attaches to a bracket on the saddle rails by two screws. When I took the bracket off the old saddle, I didn't pay much attention to where it was. Now that I'm putting it on again, I can't get the damn thing to fit, no matter what I do. I take the old saddle and hold it next to the new one. I look for wear marks in the bracket. It seems like it ought to fit underneath the rails just fine, but it won't. The new rails are too wide.

I go online and order a new saddle bag, on sale for less than $10. I get a few other things I need to make the shipment worth it. When the bag arrives, it's much bigger than I thought it would be. I attach the Velcro straps and take a look. It really is far too big for what I need. When I load it, it's sitll almost empty. I guess I can fit a can of Red Bull in it, though. I might need that on a century. I say to Jack, in a facetious girly voice, "I wonder if that bag is gonna make my ass look fat." Verisimilitude.

Two days after the first day of spring, Kermit gets his debut on a Cranbury ride that Mike M. is leading. I carpool over with Mike B. and Cheryl. I mention to them that this new saddle bag is huge, but that means I can carry less in my jersey and more in the bag. "I wonder if it makes my ass look fat, though," I add.

A few miles into the ride, as we're all grouped together on some back road or another (eight years out here and I still don't know where I am), Mike B. calls out, "Hey, Laura, just to put this out there, that bag does make your butt look kinda big."

"Ooooooo!"

"Whoa!"

"Geez!"

"Mike!"

Chris says, "Laura, feel free to hit him over the head with a two-by-four."

"I've been wanting to do that for almost a year," I reply.

The Big Ass Bag:




The new saddle is too far forward. I'm sitting way back on it, and it's hitting my sit bones pretty hard. The cables have stretched since the bike was re-built in December, too, and the shifting is so sloppy that it takes ten seconds sometimes for the gears to respond to what the shifter is doing. I'm going straight to Ross' after the ride. If they move the seat back, maybe I can put the old saddle bag on. I like it better anyway.

A few more miles into the discomfort I ask Mike, "Did you say that thing about my ass just to get into the blog?"

"Sort of," he says, and explains that he didn't at the time but realized it would make good blog fodder so he was happy he said it. "My son reads it," he says.

"Does he call you up and say, 'Dad, you embarrassed yourself again'?"

"Yep."

[So, MVB, this entry is for you.]

Mike B. says something we all mishear.

"Immorality?"

"Immortality. The blog is making our rides immortal."

"And immoral."

"That, too."

I tell everyone that the blog is about self-deprecation. If the insult is funny, it's going in.

As we approach the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area, Chris begins one of his tirades about bad drivers in big cars. We've heard all of them before, of course, but that doesn't stop him. Back in January, when I suggested we don't give him any sugar at the rest stops, Cheryl proposed feeding him a duct tape sandwich. Chris liked that. He's good about it. If we holler, "Shut up, Chris!" he laughs and then we all do. Today I call out, "Duct tape, Chris, duct tape!" and we're all giggling.

We stop at Hoffmann's bakery in Allentown. The tables are too small for all of us to fit around, so we're taking up all but two. Talk turns to Eliot Spitzer's resignation. Mike M. says he's disappointed that the Governor resigned so quickly. "I was hoping for at least one more week of it on the news. It was entertaining." That's the problem, I tell him. All the media wants to talk about is sensational gossip about nothing important. "You know the song, Dirty Laundry, by Don Henley?" Nobody does.

On the way home I remember some of the lyrics. I can recall three verses, by which point Mike M. gets a glint of recognition. The song is about twenty-five years old. If anything, things are worse today than they were then. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Here's the whole song:

I make my living off the evening news
Just give me something-something I can use
People love it when you lose,
They love dirty laundry

Well, I coulda been an actor, but I wound up here
I just have to look good, I dont have to be clear
Come and whisper in my ear
Give us dirty laundry

Kick em when theyre up
Kick em when theyre down
Kick em when theyre up
Kick em when theyre down
Kick em when theyre up
Kick em when theyre down
Kick em when theyre up
Kick em all around

We got the bubble-headed-bleach-blonde who
Comes on at five
She can tell you bout the plane crash with a gleam
In her eye
Its interesting when people die-
Give us dirty laundry

Can we film the operation?
Is the head dead yet?
You know, the boys in the newsroom got a
Running bet
Get the widow on the set!
We need dirty laundry

You dont really need to find out whats going on
You dont really want to know just how far its gone
Just leave well enough alone
Eat your dirty laundry

Kick em when theyre up
Kick em when theyre down
Kick em when theyre up
Kick em when theyre down

Kick em when theyre up
Kick em when theyre down
Kick em when theyre stiff
Kick em all around

Dirty little secrets
Dirty little lies
We got our dirty little fingers in everybodys pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love dirty laundry

We can do the innuendo
We can dance and sing
When its said and done we havent told you a thing
We all know that crap is king
Give us dirty laundry!

Back in the parking lot Chris is still coughing up last week's cold. He's been hacking for the whole ride, and now he's leaning over his handlebars. "Are you all right?" people ask. "Have you been taking any medicine?" I ask him.

Getting his breath back, he says, "I'm coughing, so I don't need any cough medicine. It's when I stop that there's a problem."

"Why?" asks Mike M. "Because it means you're talking instead?"

"Ooooooo!"

"Whoa!"

"Geez!"

"Put that in the blog," Mike M. says.

When I get home I go straight to Ross' shop and get the saddle moved and the cables adjusted. Later in the afternoon I wander downstairs to see if I can get the old saddle bag onto the new saddle now that there's more room.

I still can't do it. How did I do this before? The rails on the new one are the same distance apart as on the old one. I move the bracket up and down the rails. There's only one spot where the two screws fit inside the rails, and that's way up on the back end, facing out. Surely that's not where I had it before. But that's where it's going to go now. I guess the bag is going to have to point straight down. We'll see. I screw in the bracket and attach the bag.

Duuuuuuuuh! It looks perfect. That's how it was on the old saddle, knucklehead! I'm such an idiot.

Anyone need an eight-dollar saddle bag? Butt-width enhancer included free of charge. Don't all shout at once.

The Ass-Girdle

Friday Cat Blogging

Benny has adopted Henry and Irene.

Interlude: The Five Kinds of Hills

There are five categories of hills:

1. Patience Hills

These are the long ones, not too steep, that you just have to put your head down and get into a rhythm to get over.

2. Quad-Burners

These are a little steeper and shorter, so you go faster and burn your legs out on them.

3. Ass-Burners

Short and steep, you don't know unitl it's too late that you're taking it too fast.

4. I Ain't Goin' Up That Hill

'Nuff said.

5. Barf-Makers

Any hill in category 5 that you find yourself having to climb.

The Last Ride of the Winter

This entry is dedicated to Samantha of the Curly Tummy Fuzz, c.1989-2008.

15 March

The alarm wakes me at 7:15. If the roads are dry, I'm leading an official ride, and I have to leave for the meeting corner in an hour. I strain to keep my eyes open. The phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Laura. The roads are wet. What do you want to do?" It's Cheryl. I pull myself up and stagger to a window. "Oh, yeah, that's wet."

"We can wait an hour and go out at ten." That sounds good. I can send an email to everyone. "Send it soon. Mike's probably pacing the floor." I switch on the computer, send the email, set my alarm for another half hour, and flop back into bed.

By the time I leave the house, the roads are starting to dry out, and I get to the corner on time for a change. Mike B. is chatty today, which is good. He and Theresa have split, which is bad.

The sky is still cloudy, but the air is warm. I'm clearly overdressed, even with a strong headwind. We dodge puddles at the entrance to the parking lot. I lean Grover against a tree and shout, "Hot! Hot! Hot!" I unzip my jacket, pull off my balaclava, and get rid of the glove liners. "Hot!" This is the worst time of year for figuring out what to wear. Early spring and early fall are the worst. During the summer it's easy: we're nearly naked. In the winter, we put on everything we own. But now the temperature can change ten degrees in an hour or two, the sun can dry everything out, or things can stay clammy behind clouds all day long. The wind can cool you off or freeze you.

Bob and Mike M. are in the parking lot already. Barb pulls in. John D. arrives a little late, having hit every red light between Hamilton and here. As he gets ready, he tells me that Samantha died in her sleep a few nights ago. "You gave her a good puss life," I tell him.

I came up with a route last night, but I don't like it. It's stupid. It doesn't really go anywhere. I just wanted to do something different, but this route isn't going to be it. I tell everyone I don't like what I have in mind and I'm open to suggestions. "Sergeantsville." "Lambertville." Show of hands? Lambertville it is.

With Bob and Barb on the ride, I have to find some worthy ascents. They're both mountain goats, part of Michael H's crowd, Anchor House riders. I figure I'm probably going to be too flat for them. We'll go to Lambertville, but I'll go a different way.

We turn onto Delaware Avenue, but instead of sending them over to Woosamonsa or Poor Farm, I signal to go straight ahead. It's been years since I've gone to 579 this way. I think there's a small hill in there somewhere. I remember that it's pretty. At the intersection I turn us north, into the wind, for a good, long time. I just bypassed a big hill by going this way; I need to make up for it.

"Let's go up Pleasant Valley," Mike B. says. I think that would be a good idea. I haven't done that in years either. But a few minutes later I think of something else. "Hey, Mike! We're not gonna do Pleasant Valley. I have something mean and nasty in mind."

Mike M. comes up alongside me. "Did you say mean and nasty?"

"Yep." And I laugh.

I'm feeling lighthearted, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm finally leading again, or because we're seven people, or because we have the right mix of people today. I have a bag of jelly beans in a little pouch behind my stem. They make a pleasant little rattle on the bumps in the road.

"Right turn!"

"Oh no," Cheryl groans. I'm sending us up the back side of Poor Farm, up Harbourton-Woodsville Road. We'll reach the same altitute, just not as harshly.

"This is the road where I first heard Barb use the term 'hill slug,'" I call out, "So this hill is dedicated to her." Cheryl passes the message back to Barb. John, Cheryl, and Mike B. zip past me, as it should be. I try holding the center of the handlebars as Sean suggested. Climbing does feel easier this way, but I'm feeling a little squirrely. How am I going to reach the brakes? I move my hands back to the hoods and feel it in my legs. OK, never mind, back to the top of the bar.

For the first time in a while, I get a chance to talk to Mike B. He wants to ride as the "three musketeers" this year -- him, Cheryl, and me -- but he doesn't know how he's going to do it if he finds a girlfriend. I think about that as he pulls ahead of me, so I don't have the chance to tell him that I'm juggling biking and Jack all the time. It's doable if you don't let biking take over your life.

As we start up Mountain Road, Mike B. rides at my side, despite my urging him to go at his own pace. He says he wants to ride with me. He starts singing the Turtles' "Happy Together," and when he gets to the chorus, I chime in, "So tired together." I ad lib the next verse, something about how if I ride only with him I'll go crazy.

Somewhere along the line he starts singing about mozzerella. I say, "Don't talk about cheese when we're climbing."

"Oh, sorry."

On Rocktown Road we pass the Joes coming in the opposite direction. "You're doing hills!" I exclaim. This would be the first time since his tumble last summer that screwed up his back that Big Joe has been climbing. He says he's doing little hills, but his back still hurts. "We're going to Lambertville. Wanna come?" He thinks about it.

"How are you getting out?" he asks me. I haven't thought that far ahead. "Probalby Rocktown." There's no way out but up, unless you take Route 29, which is pretty much a death sentence. He decides his back can't take it.

We're all in the middle of the road, yakking away. Some people haven't seen each other in ages, that's what it is. That's why we're all so giddy. In twos and threes we slowly peel off towards Route 31.

We probably haven't climbed enough hills, so I send everyone down Harbourton-Mount Airy. The downhill is long enough for me to sing "Prickly Thorn But Sweetly Worn" entirely before the ass-burner hill kicks in, by which time I'm onto "St. Andrew," which is two minutes of White Stripes white noise. Perfect for a short climb. At the top, fuzzy calves are loafing in the mud. Mike B. says, "It smells like my kitchen, right Cheryl?" Eeewww. A German Shepherd on a doorstep lazily eyes us.

John has been hurling out one-liners I know I'll forget by the time I get home. [Yep.] He does a workout on Elliot Spitzer, the New York Governor caught in a prostitution ring: "He talked her down from five thousand an hour to forty-three hundred for the whole night. Can you believe it? Never pay retail!"

On Queen Road, Mike B. says something to Barb that prompts me to call out, "Stop flirting with all the women on the ride, Mike."

We turn onto Alexauken Creek Road, and our thoughts turn to coffee.

In line at Rojo's, I give John a lesson on how to use a French press. "I figured out I'm spending $30 a week on coffee in the cafeteria," he says. A press, a grinder, and some fresh beans will solve that.

I order a large Colombian. John gets the Midwives blend. Cheryl and Mike have gone around the corner for bagels.

Seven of us cram around a wooden table. It feels so comfortable, so chummy, so familiar. Mike M. has finished his espresso. Mike B. is down to his undershirt. I plop the bag of jelly beans onto the table. A few Swedish fish from last season are mixed in. "Vintage," somebody says. Everyone digs in. Mike B. tells us he had a bag of Swedish fish at home. "I let myself have four at lunch," he explains. "But -- I work at home -- in the middle of the afternoon, I have to, you know, go check to see if they're still there."
We're sharing food, passing out chunks of Cliff bars, and kicking back. Cheryl says my right eye looks red. Uh-oh.

On my way to the bathroom to check my eye, I stop to chat with the Rojo's owner, Dave, for a little while. Like me, he's a Penn grad. Undergrad and law school for him, and a daughter there now in midwife school. Midwives blend. Aha. I find out I have to wait till November for the next batch of beans from East Timor. Meanwhile, I'm really digging the decaf Sumatra. In the bathroom I dig out some drops that blur my vision for a few minutes. My right eye does look pretty gross, but at least it's not scratched and swollen.

Now, how to get out of Lambertville in a way to make Bob and Barbara happy? Swan or Franklin, of course. Those are the roads I avoid at all cost; they make my legs shake just thinking about them. But right now I'm flying on a strong Colombian brew. "Hey, Bob. Which one's harder, Swan or Franklin?"

"Franklin," John answers. "It's shorter but it's steeper."

"Straight!" I call out. I must just be watching myself do this, I think. Didn't I blog just last week that I don't go up this road? It's been probably five years since I've been here. Cheryl figures the same. I don't even remember what the top looks like, or even where this leads.

Before the road curves away to the left, it levels out. I stop for a picture.



Whoops. There's a bit more hill around the corner. Did I just cheat? But there's an even better view from here. I hop off and pull my phone out again.





I feel badly that the group is waiting for me when I finally catch up, around another corner and far up the road, past where Studdiford changes name to Goat Hill. "Sorry. I was being a shutterbug." I try to get a picture of a yard flag with a moose on it, but the wind kicks up and I give up.

We turn onto Valley Road. Back when we were planning our Halloween ride, Barb, John, and I had come here looking for the gravity hill. We couldn't find the spot that, according to legend, seems to pull you uphill.

My bottom bracket, which at some point every winter starts chirping, now sounds like a distant crow. "What is that sound?" Mike asks, and soon after Barb asks the same thing. Gonzo is due for a cleaning. I call it "the annual flea-dip and shots." Mike says he calls it "a colonoscopy."

The question arises, are we taking Pleasant Valley all the way back, or are we going to cut out at Pleasant Valley-Harbourton Road?

Years ago, Cheryl and I were on one of Alan Kammerman's rides. Alan rides a mountain bike on the road. I think it's for ballast when the wind blows. Bob Barish once suggested he remove the seat since he hardly uses it. Alan is small and strong. No hill fazes him. His rides scare me. Cheryl and I were on one of these, and after hauling ourselves up Swan, or Franklin, who knows which, we decided that Pleasant Valley just wasn't happening. We turned left on Pleasant Valley-Harbourton, leaving the rest of the group to struggle up the badly-paved, baking hot series of Unpleasant Valley hills. As we rounded a bend, Cheryl called out, "Suckers!" To this day, we call this the Suckers Bail-Out Route. Not that either of us has gone near this direction in five years, but still.

We near the Bail-Out. John tentatively turns. I holler, "Swing 'em if you got 'em! We're goin' straight!"

Even in winter, this road is hot. Mike B. says he's boiling in oil. I'm sweating too. This road is one of the few that sucks in both directions. At least it's pretty. At the end of the road, Barb says she'd been reading more about the gravity hill. "It's on this road, somewhere near this end." But none of us felt as if we'd had any help at all getting over that hill.

We take a detour down to Jacob's Creek Road. Bob has never been there so he's in for a treat. I tell him I feel as if I need to put in big hills for him and Barb. He assures me that isn't necessary. I notice that he climbs with his hands on the top of his handlebars, too. So does John. I pull up alongside John and ask him about it, and we discuss aerodynamics as we climb up Washington Crossing Road.

John tosses out another one-liner. I tell Cheryl, "I need to bring a tape recorder." She agrees.

At the end of the ride we're a little short on miles, but nobody minds. We decide to try for New Egypt tomorrow if the weather holds out, but it's not looking good.

Mike wants to get in an even fifty miles, so he insists that he and Cheryl ride with me all the way to my house. He admits he's too anal; I tell him he needs to loosen up.

Under the oak tree in our front yard, crocuses and snowdrops are blooming. The buds on the dogwoods and the oak are starting to swell. This is the last weekend before spring, and, given tomorrow's forecast, likely our last ride of the winter. Next week, if the roads are dry, Kermit will have his 2008 debut. It will be Easter weekend. I have the chocolate bunnies ready.

Interlude: Near Miss on a Bike Path

I don't even remember what year this was. I had Kermit, so it must've been in early 2001. Cheryl still had her Bianchi, and Richie still rode with us. This was back before I was an official ride leader, when we were just starting to go out on our own.

We were a small group, maybe half a dozen. Richie and Cheryl were there. I was in the lead as we turned from Elm Road onto the bike path behind Elm Court in Princeton. Up ahead I saw a woman in a wheelchair, in her bathrobe and slippers, with a little terrier on a leash. I signaled to slow down.

She saw us and moved her chair to one side. But at the last minute, as I was about to pass, she backed up even further, and two wheels went off the path. Her chair began to tip. Cheryl was behind me. We both jumped off our bikes. Cheryl was closer and grabbed the wheelchair handles. She and the woman managed to right the chair and get it back onto the blacktop.

The woman said, "Whoo! I scared myself."

Cheryl said, "You scared us! Are you okay?"

She assured us she was fine, but we kept asking anyway. The little dog strained on the leash. "What's his name?" Cheryl asked.

"Mitzy," she said, as we reached down to pet the dog. "She's very friendly."

"Can I get you anything?" Cheryl asked. "Do you want a Power Bar?"

The woman said she was fine, and after reassuring us a few more times, we continued on our way.

Around the bend, I said, "Good thing this isn't an official ride. How would I write this up? That we nearly ran over an old lady in a wheelchair?" The adrenaline was still flowing.

Miles later, in a quiet moment, Richie broke the silence:

"Outa the way, Mitzy! It's every man for himself!"

Lake Fugawi

9 March

I knock on John D.'s door at 8:30 am. We pushed our clocks ahead one hour last night, and I can feel it. He lets me in; I always want to play with the cats when I stop by. Poor old Samantha, she of the long hair and curly tummy fuzz, is hunkered down on the corner of the sofa, her kidneys failing. Hilda says she has days to live. I pet her fluffy head. She's as old as Cleio, who is only in the beginning stages of renal failure, and who is still spry for a cat who will turn nineteen in a few months.

I say hello to Maxwell and Zanzibar and Isaac's tail in the living room, and Tessa and deaf Luna on the stairs. John grinds coffee beans and I step outside to wait. We're going to Prospertown, somewhere west of Great Adventure off of I-195. I have no idea what to expect, and I haven't gotten around to asking. Above me the winds are gusting at thirty miles per hour or more. Whatever we're about to do, I hope it's not out in the open.

As I follow John through a maze of back roads in Hamilton to the highway, he's drinking his coffee and I'm drinking mine. We're both hooked on Rojo's now, and look askance at other options. I've got a dark roast Sumatran-East Timor decaf-caffeine blend going. I don't know what John has, but he'll need it on his single-speed mountain bike.

Chris pulls into the lake parking lot at the same time we do. The wind is whipping around so much I'm hesitant to take off my winter coat. I have to grit my teeth when I do it.
To our left, the high roller coasters of Great Adventure poke above the trees. All around us is Pinelands forest.




Chris leads us out of the lot, away from the lake. He's putting us on the open road, uphill and into the wind. John grumbles as we climb. He only has one gear to get him through this. It's not easy to pity him; he brought this on himself, but still I do. Mountain bikes aren't made for windy roads at nine thirty in the morning on the first day of daylight saving time. Chris, far ahead, gestures left and we turn onto another county road, out of the wind. He turns left again, into the woods, and now we're looking for a dirt road into the forest.

"Where are we?" I ask. "Colliers Mills?"

"Nope," Chris says. "That's on the other side of 528." I don't know where we are in relation to 528.

Yesterday's rain brought us here: anything else but sandy soil would be a mudfest. Still, we have to maneuver around puddles that are too wide and too deep to do anything but walk around. We reach a puddle that John pedals through. Chris follows, I watch, and decide to pedal through it too. I make it to the other side without getting my feet wet, but I lose momentum as my rear wheel clears the water, and my feet go down into wet mud. Water trickles to my socks before I can yank my feet back onto the pedals. I wonder how long it'll be before my toes get numb; toe warmers don't seem to work wet. I had a pair of wicking socks that I wore all of twice before I misplaced them. I forgot to put plastic bags in my shoes today.

The sand is too warm to be frozen. We fishtail a lot.

We pass by a ridge. Chris asks John if he wants to climb it later, and John says he does.

Whenever we're on a road and John sees a fire ditch, he calls out, "Ho-ho-hoooooooooooo!" and turns in.

Chris sort of knows where he's going. John and I don't, but John has his GPS. Every time we reach an intersection, John consults his computer. I realize how much I trust these guys.

We're trying to get across a lake without having to swim. In a clearing we look around for anything that looks like a road. We think we see one not too far away, so we head towards it, John in the lead. Halfway across we have to cross a channel by walking on a thin, steel beam and using our bikes for balance. John goes first and helps Chris and me across. I can't figure out how John made it over by himself without falling in. Chris puts his bike down to clear the channel of debris. I take pictures. Since we don't know where we are or what lake this is, I name it "Lake Fugawi."






We find ourselves against the back end of Great Adventure's safari park. Little antelope-creatures with long horns scamper about at the edge of our view. One of them only has one horn.

Of all the terrains I've mountain biked so far, I like the Pinelands the best. I don't get thrown around as much as in Mercer County Park. There aren't as many obstacles to jump, but we have to be quick to keep upright in shifting sand and in avoiding low bushes that creep into fire ditches. We have to navigate thin, sandy trails and do puddle slaloms. We can careen off potholes and bounce off of sandy moguls. There are wide dirt roads and small, sun-dappled, pine-needled trails. We see black water streams and open lakes. The wind above us is just another sound; we can't feel it down here. We go anaerobic a lot.

We find ourselves on a paved road, outside of the forest. The sign says Perrineville and I get confused. This isn't the Perrineville Road I know of back near the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area, or the Perrine Road up in Plainsboro. Whoever this guy was, he sure got around. Chris and John take a guess as to which way we should go, and we end up in front of Saint Vladimir Russian Orthodox Church in Cassville. I stop for a picture. A turkey vulture is perched on one of the spires, but by the time I get my phone out, the bird has flown away.



We're near the Cassville deli, a very creepy road bike rest stop with no real food in it, and bad coffee. The owners smoke inside and argue. The music on the speakers is either Ozzy Osbourne or Yankee Doodle Dandy. We can sit on the porch outside, too close to traffic. The entire experience pretty much sucks. Today we bike on past, not at all interested even in getting warm inside.

It seems we've gone the wrong way on Perrineville, and now we have to ride on Route 528 westward into the wind again, looking for an entrance back into the forest. We find one after a mile or so. My feet are getting cold. I start to get worried and a little cranky. I'm ready to go home. John and Chris are looking for the quickest way back.

We come upon the ridge we'd passed earlier. Not even John can get all the way up without walking. I don't even try. Walking up is tough enough as my toes seem to be numb. But walking helps; they feel warmer by the time I get to the top of the hill. Chris points out Great Adventure through a break in the trees. "We want to go that way," he says. John consults his GPS and plots a course. I look out above the forest around us. I can't tell if it's flat or hilly here. Chris says he always has to climb this ridge to get his bearings.

Back on the sandy road out of the forest, I can tell that the caffeine is out of my system, leaving me just tired. My mind separates from my legs; they don't feel like part of my body as they go 'round and 'round and 'round.

We have a tailwind on the road back to Prospertown Lake. Chris says, "If you got the gears..." and zooms ahead of us, up a hill. I shift to follow. Behind me, John says, "No fair." My chain is squeaking. Grover needs a greasing and a tune-up.

In the parking lot I dive for my winter coat, call Jack, and take a few more pictures. John adjusts his chain, seeking single-speed perfection.




Maybe this will be the last mountain biking day of the season. I hope so. We talk about next week, when I'm scheduled to lead a ride on the road.

When I get home, I check NJ Bikemap (Dustin's maps). We were in the Prospertown Wildlife Management Area, just north of the Collier's Mills Wildlife Management Area, west of Cassville and just north of Fort Dix.

Fifth Wheel

2 March 2008

With snow still on the ground but not on the roads, we're following a route Mike B. snagged from the Morris Area Freewheelers. Cheryl is meeting a new friend, Dave, up here. There's MikeAndTheresa. And there's me, the fifth wheel. I look at it as a scouting mission, since I'm only slightly familiar with about half of the roads on today's route.

Most starting points are a few miles away from the pretty stuff. Not today. It starts almost right away. But we really get into it on Rockaway Road. The brown river contrasts with the white snow and crystal blue sky. I don't even mind the cold and the wind.







MikeAndTheresa are behind me, glued together in a lateral tandem. Dave and Cheryl are up ahead. In this formation we meet our first big hill on Hoffmans Corner Road. I pedal slowly and get some Zen: "If the hill is too big to tackle all at once, break it into little pieces." When I run out of that, I think, "It is what it is." I channel Matt Rawls: "Pedal, pedal, pedal."

At the top is a plateau on a curved clearing, way above everything, looking out onto neighboring ridges. I tell everyone to go on ahead while I get some pictures. My cell phone camera doesn't do it justice.



As I round the corner, MikeAndTheresa are giving each other tonsilectomies. I holler, "Get a room! Get a room!" as I pass, but I don't think they hear me. Ahead is a patch of ice as the road careens downhill in a bumpy fashion. I ride the breaks. The view is astounding, but I can't look or I'll tumble.

At the bottom, Mike says he wants to climb the hill from this side. Theresa and I tell him to go ahead; we'll wait down here.

We're following the Raritan River now, on our left. People are out walking dogs in droves, perhaps because here is probably the only flat surface for miles.

We reach Califon only to find that the rest stop is closed. It's Sunday. We contemplate holding out till Oldwick, but I know we have a few big hills between here and there. Cheryl asks some passersby if there's anything else around. The point us towards a general store back over the bridge.

Snow is piled high against the porch where we park our bikes. The picture I snap makes us look like lunatics riding skinny tires in a snowstorm:



No muffins! I settle for PB&J and 16 ounces of the brown stuff. Colombian. I should fly out of here once this stuff hits. Cheryl is eating PB&J too. Mike is sniffing at our sandwiches, after devouring one of his own. I don't catch the hint, but Cheryl does and gives him some of hers. It's not enough. He gets up and comes back with a stack of cookies. It's not enough. He pulls out a bag of cashews and makes quick work of them. It's not enough. He disappears and comes back with a bagel. I'm thinking I should start calling him "Blue Crab." If I remember right, they'll eat anything, and Mike's stance on the bike is sort of crab-like. [I checked with my marine biologist friends from grad school. A blue crab will, in fact, eat just about anything in its path.]

Leaving Califon we get confused. Mike remembers an instant hill, but we're following the Raritan along a flat road instead. We turn around after a mile or so, get back into Califon, and I check my maps. We were right the first time; we turn around and re-re-trace our path. Soon enough the road starts to climb.

I watch Cheryl, who is far enough ahead of me to give me a sense of what's coming. When she stands, I know she's hit a tough spot. I'm looking for her to start coasting, or stop, which would mean she's found the top, but she just keeps pedaling. I start to panic, but I get a grip and do more slicing into little pieces. Eventually it's over.

At the top, I make myself clearly misunderstood when Mike, Cheryl, and I get into a heated discussion. What they perceive as regaling me with tales of hilly glory that I missed, I perceive as bragging about something I'm not good enough to do. I've been trying to find words for it for years, but I can't. The closest I can get is, "If a biker does a century and there's nobody to witness it or brag to, does it still count?" I tell them, "It makes me feel inadequate." I feel better having said it; I wonder how long it will last.

We look to our right, where we're headed. Dave looks with a touch of horror at the ridges we have yet to cross. Mike says it's mostly downhill from here. I believe my eyes. But the worst is indeed over as we head to Oldwick. We don't need another rest stop, but Cheryl and I insist Dave see the general store.

It's an old house that's now the center of activity in this tiny town. Outside the view is of hills in the distance, each with its own house. In the yard are wooden chairs and tables for bikers to use. Inside is a labyrinthine mess of a general store, bakery, and greasy spoon. Tables and chairs are where the living and dining rooms probably used to be. The bathroom is down a hall next to what once might have been the pantry.

The joint is jumping. I buy a muffin to take home. Cheryl gets more coffee. Dave contemplates a sandwich (but only contemplates). Mike finds a hunk of coffee cake and downs it. Outside, I take pictures:







Today's ride is a jumble of scenery: stone houses, horse farms, fuzzy banded cows (*), lots of Canada geese, big houses with character (because they're real mansions, not McMansions), only one cat, and lots of dogs.

On our way home, I take one more picture at the end of Vliettown Road.



(* We've seen cows like these before. Mike H. and I weren't sure what they're really called, but he'd been calling them "banded cows." I suggested "Oreo cows." Pregnant ones would be "Double Stuff." For the record, they're brown on the ends, white in the middle, and sort of fuzzy.)

Guest Blogging: Joe and Joe's The Logic of Winter

2 March 2008

from Joe McBride and Joe Miller:

It was a sunny mid winter early afternoon ride. The kind of ride that takes your breath away, the breeze blowing through the bare trees exposing all the intricacies of nature. It is about 48 degrees and Joe and Joe are moving along enjoying the day, except one thing is missing, other riders. Many of them were on the 9AM club ride. Temperature at 8:45 that morning was 27 and the wind chill slightly lower. As a bead of sweat catches the eye brow, one Joe turns to the other and asks why bikers ride in sub freezing weather when a few hours later it is almost pleasant. There is a long silence since neither Joe has an answer for this seemingly irrational, counter intuitive and maladaptive behavior. The silence is broken when one Joe suggests that they seek the answer.

They decide to search for the answer to what has seemingly become the existential dilemma for the new millennium. They contact philosophy professors at the local college, they meditate for hours, and they scour the internet for any explanation, they ask Jeeves, and Google the word perplexing. They come up with the following reasons and feel compelled to share them with the biking community in the hope that the answer can be found.

The top ten reasons that rides should not start after 9 between November and April:

10. If Lance can win 7 Tours without doping, never mind, bad example.

9. No one really likes to sleep in when they can ride in wind chills under 20.

8. Have to use all those expensive bike clothes sometime.

7. When else can you use your ski goggles on a road ride?

6. It is a fact that the body needs to work harder in cold weather to maintain temperature so it is a better workout. So is riding with a 30 pound weight on your back, or as it is commonly called, an aqua pack.

5. We sweat enough in the summer so why not ride during the coldest part of the day.

4. Riding in 20 degrees builds character and makes for a good war story.

3. My spouse/partner gets upset when I ride past 11 – referrals for couple therapy available upon request.

2. It is too f**&ing cold to talk.

1. We always ride at 9 – duh!

Please feel free to add reasons of your own, witty retorts and/or sarcastic comments. They are all welcome in the search for knowledge.

Joe & Joe

John Loses His Mind and His Shifters

21 February 2008

John D. took his perfectly good 21-speed Litespeed Toccoa mountain bike and removed all the gears. I suppose he was just doing what Chris and John P. did when they ripped their rear deraileurs off in the woods. At least we stand a chance of keeping up with him now.



Under The Knife



Old Gears



New Crank



New Drive Train



It's Alive

Interlude: New Orleans

21-24 February 2008

While New Jersey was being snowed upon, Jack and I were in New Orleans at the annual South Central Society for Eighteenth Century Studies (SCSECS). I follow Jack to these things whenever the city is interesting. I'd never been to New Orleans before. Kevin, Dale, and Sean were there, too.

Our hotel was in the French Quarter. Scheduling around conference panels leaves only a few hours at a time to really go exploring, so we didn't get too far out or take any tours.

Sean, Jack, and I walked along Bourbon Street on our first day, in search of lunch. What we found was a lot of noisy bars in the pouring rain. Even an hour-long rain shower sends water out with nowhere to go. Clear streams of rainwater ran up to the curbs. This city is below sea level and it's a wonder it exists here at all. We found a place off of Bourbon to dry off and watch the rain for a while.

Hurricane Katrina is just under the surface of everything, even in places that seem to be thriving. In the French Quarter, at street level, the shops are busy. But one story up, the windows are empty, the spaces vacant. We've been told that New Orleans was falling apart even before the hurricanes. From where we sit in the restaurant, I can see it in a tilted street lamp. Beyond it are leaning shutters and mildewed porches.







Jack's publisher took a group of us out to dinner on the fist night, to one of the fanciest restaurants in the city. We ate under a massive crystal chandelier, surrounded by angled mirrors and opulence. My entree was $18. Katrina had lopped off $20 from the price.

Our hotel, too, was opulent. Our final bill made my eyes bug out, but I know we'd have paid more anywhere else. Our bathroom was done in granite; the sink was of the same stone as the floor. The lobby was chandeliers and mirrors.





We talked to a few people in the city who had survived the hurricane. Everyone is grateful that people are coming back to visit. Everyone we encountered, from famous zydeco musicians to housekeeping staff, was friendly, and not in a fake sort of way.

Our second night there was a zydeco concert at the conference hotel. The organizers apparently had paid big money to get Rockin' Dopsie and the Zydeco Twisters to perform. One of the organizers was a big fan of the band, and the band knew her.

Half the crowd was dancing. A tiny woman that Jack knew came up to me and tried to pull me onto the dance floor. "I don't dance," I told her. She pouted at me, staring, but I didn't blink. "I don't dance," I said again, and she finally left me alone.

In between sets, most people left, but about a dozen of us stayed. Jack and I moved to the front of the room. Rockin' Dopsie jumped down to the dance floor for his final song. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up. "I don't dance," I said. I stood on the side, next to Jack, who doesn't dance either.




The next day, Dale, Sean, Jack, and I got to the Garden District. On the way, we saw some cats in a yard and started to play with one of them. "That's Mr. Kitty," a woman said, emerging from her porch. Mr. Kitty performed lazy love circles around our legs as the woman gave us a friendly lecture about her Katrina experience. I don't remember many of the details, just the impression that she was one of the lucky ones who carries the sadness with her and wants to tell the world.

The Garden District survived the floods. People hang Mardi Gras beads from fences, from sculptures, and from trees.







Where we were, Katrina isn't in the seeing, it's in the telling.

Kevin was looking out a window when a housekeeper commented on the beautiful day. "It reminds me of summer," she said, "And that scares me."

At a souvenir shop, the Voodoo Mart, where I stopped for some beads and voodoo dolls to take home for friends, I saw a book of Katrina photos on the counter. I flipped through it, horrified. "I see those images every time I close my eyes," the cashier said.

Guest Blogging: Joe Miller's War Story

23 February 2008

I've been inspired by Laura's Hill Slug Chronicles to write something about my ride this past Thursday.

I took Edie to a nurse's training course in King of Prussia, PA. It's about a 50 minute trip, so I had already decided to find something to do in the area rather than spend most of the day round-tripping. Valley Forge is almost adjacent, and I thought of the Perkiomen bike trail nearby, which I have not yet ridden.

It was 23F at 9:30 when I parked at the lot. In comparison, it was 65F on Monday. I rode that day also. It was warmer. However, I'm prepared with 4 layers and the ubiquitous chemical toe warmers. Hey, I've ridden in colder than this - once.

I'm expecting the cold fingers I experience at the start, but not prepared for the icy winds biting into my knees. I have to look down several times to insure I did indeed wear tights over my shorts. I consider abandoning after five minutes, but figure I can handle it a bit longer. As always happens, I don't remember when I started to feel warmer, but at some point I realize my legs stopped hurting. My core was never cold, and my toes are just fine. Better living through chemistry.

The first part of the path is paved, which is not much help when you want to go slow. Not that that would avoid the wind chill, as it is a brisk headwind. After a couple of miles, the path turns to dirt. You might think at those temps that all would be frozen, but the first 100 or so yards are wet. No problemo, I put the plastic fenders on the mtn. bike a few weeks back. I can see the mud on the bottom bracket, but I know I will stay dry.

The path follows the Perkiomen creek for much of the way, and provides some nice views. Now that I feel comfortable, I begin to relax & enjoy. This was a good idea. At places the trail is elevated, and its easy to imagine its railroad origins. At times, civilization intrudes, and I hit a cross street, or ride next to a road a bit. I finally come to a stop light in a small town, and it takes a minute to figure where the trail picks up. Oh yeah, duh - there's the well marked trail sign across the street and a bit to the right. The second time that happens, I am in Collegeville. I estimate I can ride another 10 minutes before turning around - that will give me enough time to meet Edie for lunch.

The last part of the path before the turnaround is the wettest. It's about here that I begin to have problems shifting, Not that this flat trail requires much shifting. I get a good idea - no need to stop. I just remove my toe from the pedal & tap it against the rear derailler a few times. Can't understand why that doesn't help much. Eventually, I manage to shift, but it's slow responding.

The way back is much quicker and warmer with the tail wind. I stop & remove the shell so as not to start sweating. I plan on cleaning the mud off the bike before putting it in the car, since I'll have enough time.

When I get back I change in the car - it's nice & warm in the sun. Then I take a rag to the bike. There's a round ball about 1.5 inches across between the chainstays in front of the back tire. I realize it must be ice, but how'd it form and what's keeping it there? Turns out it's attached to the chain stay bridge. I just break it off. The bottom bracket is tougher. I can't seem to remove it. I grab a wrench from the car & whack it a few. Then whack it a few more. This won't hurt the paint any, right? The ice finally begins to break off. There's much more than I thought. Could these large pieces actually have accumulated on such a small part of the bike? And somehow the cables threaded right through small holes in the ice. I'm amazed I could shift at all. So how did the dirt trail manage to remain unfrozen, is it bike freezes before road surface? The famous hot springs of Perkiomen.

I haven't done much mountain biking in recent past. In the dim past, I seem to recall sometimes having shifting problems after crossing small streams in below freezing weather, but never did I accumulate ice like that.

In retrospect, if I ever decide to ride in weather that cold again, I would 1. wear my winter tights with the nylon wind front, 2. bring chemical hand warmers, and 3. bring along an ice pick.