Crazy Season Begins

25 May

We skipped the All-Paces Memorial Day ride in favor of going with the Joes from Mercer County Park to Belmar. Mike and I started from our homes to turn the trip into a century.

The ride was in stages: a handful of us left Mercer County Park and picked up the rest at Etra Park in Hightstown.

As much as the Joes love Belmar, I still think there's nothing redeeming about the place save for the fact that we can get to it in a reasonable distance.

Here's the boardwalk:



And the main drag where all the cyclists and half-naked teens hang out:



More of Belmar's natural beauty:



A few hovels along the waterfront:



An inlet:



The nicer part of town:



We stopped for another break just south of Turkey Swamp. That's where the Joes decided to leave me, Mike, Cheryl, and George to take Cheryl back to Etra on our own. They were in some kind of hurry. We were a bite away from finishing our sandwiches; that would take too long for them, so off they went.

Suspecting the Joes might ditch me I'd carried an old cue sheet and maps, but we didn't need them because George graciously led us back.

George was singing:

"Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven."

I said, "You're listening to Radio Foradori." He liked that.

Cheryl got a flat two miles away from Etra Park. We stopped under a tree to change the tube. George and Mike went to it. I always have my rubber allergy excuse. What followed was the most comically obscene exchange since the time Richie used my mini-pump (which too much resembled a dildo and fortunately broke a few years ago). The conversation involved extra testicles, and that's all I'm saying about that.

So I'll just report the middle of it:

George (singing): "Be sure that your umbrella is upside down."

Me: "Shouldn't it be dimes or quarters from heaven instead of pennies? You know, inflation?"

The first replacement tube had a short stem, which made getting the carbon dioxide cartridge onto it a bit of a challenge. I'm the one who does the cartridge. As George once said to me a few years ago when I had a flat, "Carina, those things scare me!" I mentioned that again. "They do!" he said.

The tube had a hole in it, so I offered up one of my long-stem tubes and a cartridge.

George (singing): "Every time it rains, it rains--"

Me: "Bailouts from heaven."

The second tube worked.

George: "So it's true, women like long stems."

Me: "I only ride long stems."

Mike: "Oh, man!"

Cheryl: "Sheez!"

We dropped Cheryl off at the park and George went on home. Mike and I took the long way back so that we'd have a hundred miles.

By the time I got home my sunblock had been wiped and sweated off, leaving me with a faint, lovely, striped, helmet-patterned sunburn on my forehead.

Bird Blogging Update

25 May

Three eggs as of Memorial Day. The picture is blurry because the flower pot was swinging. The robin has been staying on her nest a lot more these days.

Windowsill Bird Blogging

24 May

I bought a fuchsia at the Trenton Farmers' Market last Sunday. I hung it just outside our kitchen window. Within hours a robin settled in it.

On Friday I took a peek. The bird was gone but there was an empty nest in the pot.

Yesterday I looked and there was one egg. Today there were two.





This view is from the kitchen. If you click on the picture and look just up and to the right of the flowers you might see the robin's eye.



Stay tuned for more bird blogging.

How to See a Reservoir

23 May

The third time's a charm, as the saying goes. The air was warm but not hot, a little humid but not too much. The sky was a bit cloudy and there was hardly any wind at all when I set out from Frenchtown with Mike B., Theresa, Phyllis, Chris, and Lenny (a newcomer to the Slugiverse).

We climbed out of the Delaware River valley north of Milford on Javes Road, crossing
the same little stream four times in less than a mile.

On Schoolhouse Road I stopped for a picture even though the sun put everything in shadow.



From the river to the top of Michelin Corner Road it's one long, gradual, 10 mile ascent. I promised a long downhill on the way home to make up for it.

After the Route 78 underpass Chris looked up and asked, "Which of those are we going up?" He was talking about two imposing, forested bumps on the near horizon. I wasn't sure.

We were going into Spruce Run Reservoir first. The last two times we were here Mike paid the $2 per bike entrance fee. I made sure I was first to the toll booth this time and paid for all of us.

The first order of business was to get to the spot Mike swore the last two times had the best view. We finally saw what he'd been raving about.





On the other hand, the picture of this rock that Tom took in the fog is much more interesting than what we saw today:



I posted Tom's picture last year, too, but it bears repeating:



Hmm... I guess the water level was lower back then.

Anyway, more scenery:





I caught Phyllis shoving $2 into my saddle bag. She wouldn't take it back.

We moseyed along on a sidewalk to the reservoir's beach. As I snapped this picture Chris said, "Don't get any people in it, now." I never put people in my pictures. That splash in the middle is from a person diving underwater.



Spruce Run Reservoir has a boat launch and a marina. This is the view from the launch:





Phyllis asked, "How much further til the rest stop?"

I looked at my computer and said, "It's at 25 miles, so about five more miles."

"I ran out of food," she said. I gave her a couple of Shot Bloks, ones that had been aging in my pack for six months and were no longer sticky. She wrapped them in a napkin.

At the intersection of Van Syckels and Route 31 two EMT's were collecting donations. I reached into my saddle bag and pulled out Phyllis' $2. It was a long light, so we all had time to donate.

"Where are you coming from?" the older one asked. We told him. He said he wasn't in shape to ride that far anymore. The light turned green. I gave everyone a warning about what was coming next.

Buffalo Hollow Road, the part that's just off Route 31, is annoying. Just plain annoying. It starts off looking like a warehouse driveway, then turns abruptly into the woods at an unrealistic grade. Just when you think the worst is over it takes a sharp turn to the left and becomes a railroad overpass in the full sunlight. The pain only lasts a few pedal strokes, but still.

It gets pretty very quickly, though, before diving downhill. I took this same picture with my cell phone two years ago. I stopped again this time for a clearer shot:



The road climbs again after this. Last year we went up and turned onto Observatory Road, a steep, wooded climb of 350 feet. The payoff was meager, so I decided to skip it this year; we turned off onto Poplar, a bumpy moonscape for a quarter mile or so. At the other end is Cregar. Looking south we could see where we'd come from and just how high up we were. The view was too industrial, though, so I didn't take a picture. We turned north and climbed some more.

At the end of the road was the Hilltop Deli, our first rest stop.

"We're stopping here?" Phyllis asked.

"Yep."

She looked relieved. "I thought we had another twenty-five miles to go."

"Oh! No, we're stopping at twenty-five miles. "

"Cause these hammerheads I ride with, they go fifty miles without a rest stop."

"I'd never do that." Hill Slugs are all about stopping every twenty-five to thirty miles.

Hilltop's muffins are nearly Stanton-sized. I picked out one that could easily feed the six of us. We sat outside. I drank something that tasted vaguely like coffee and ate half of my Jack bread PB-Nutella & J sandwich. I felt the caffeine right away; it was verging on too much.

We consulted the map. My plan was to change the route from last year. I wanted to see Lake Solitude before the rumored dam removal happened. I always get turned around in High Bridge anyway, so giving it a miss by following the river out of town suited me.

"How bad is Herman Thau?" I asked Mike, who used to come through here a lot during his solo riding days. I plotted a course that would let us see Round Valley Reservoir from the top of the Cokesbury ridge.

We followed a river towards Lake Solitude. I hadn't studied the map, but I bet myself that we were riding along the North Branch of the Raritan River. No matter where I go, it's always the Raritan. (I checked when I got home; it was indeed the North Branch again.)

The narrow river tumbled over rocks and made whitecaps. It poured over a shallow spillway and opened into Lake Solitude. Behind me someone said, "This gets an A plus!"

Mike said, "They don't know what's coming."

"You're scaring me."

"It's no worse than any hill you've ever climbed."

"That's not comforting."

"It's not Federal Twist."

That wasn't comforting either. "You know, last time you mentioned this road you said it was tough."

"I did?" He had some backpedaling to do.

"Turn here," he said.

"But it says 'Wilson,' not 'Herman Thau.''

"This is the turn. Trust me. I used to come here all the time." I couldn't trust him; he's too easily disoriented.

I pulled out my map and Lenny his cell phone for Google Maps. Mike was right.

"See? See?"

"It's a double-humper," he said. We were staring at a pretty impressive incline. Phyllis went first and I followed her up. The road seemed to level off a little and then it started in again. Although the road was straight and in the woods, I couldn't see the top. I tried not to panic. When Phyllis angled out towards the middle of the road I did too. It helped cut the grade down and let us see more of what was ahead. When I finally spotted the top I said, "I'm gonna smack Mike." I figured we were done.

But we weren't. "There's a steep downhill and then the second hump," Mike warned. At the end, as we caught our breaths, I said it was a good thing I'd skipped Observatory.

We'd seen road signs along the way up here, and not one of them said Herman Thau. Befuddled, I made a mental note to check my county maps when I got home. (I did, and the road officially changes names just outside the High Bridge border. Somebody ought to tell that to the road signs.)

We still had some more climbing to do to get to the top of the ridge, but it was gentler. We were going north and east just to go south again for the view. It was worth the work. Below us was Round Valley Reservoir:



We dropped over 400 feet in a mile or so on Cokesbury Road. Somewhere in there Lenny's cycle computer skittered off, but he found it.

We passed through Lebanon. The luncheonette looked closed. I checked the time. It was only 12:30, and this was Saturday. This could be bad. One more near-reservoir rest stop down the tubes? I'd have to call when I got home.

We turned right on Cherry to start up the north side of Round Valley Reservoir. At the top I pulled off to the left and motioned everyone to follow me. Phyllis rode on ahead. I turned around. "Look over there," I said. "That's where we just were."



We turned back around and followed the reservoir. I can never get a good picture from here; that damn fence gets in the way.



But I got a good one of the berm, finally. It's steeper in real life:



Mike or Lenny wondered what the berm looked like from above. "Like crop circles," Mike suggested. Lenny said something clever about a message written in the grass that I've completely forgotten.

Phyllis was waiting for us at the boat launch.

How many pictures have I taken from this spot?



Somebody asked me how many more big climbs were left. "Well, there's a 350-footer, and then there's the Fucking Hill."

"The Fucking Hill?"

"Yeah."



Phyllis finished a conversation with a fisherman and told us what they'd been talking about: There are too many trout stocked here, so the season opened early and people can take a lot of small ones. "There's not enough food," she said. So they're letting the big ones stay and taking the little ones out.

Where the reservoir road turns it goes down to the north and up to the south. "Are we going downhill?" Phyllis asked.

"Nope. Wrong direction. We need to go left."

"Drat."

"We're pretty much fucked from this point anyway. No matter where we go we still have to climb up the next ridge."

So we worked a little to get to the top of the reservoir and then enjoyed our swooping downhill into the (what else?) Raritan River's valley.

We crossed Route 31 at Payne Road. On the other side was a view of the next ridge over, with a peculiar stand of trees. "It looks like a Dr. Seuss drawing," I said, and took a picture. Look in the middle of the far ridge.



I just spent some time looking at my maps, and I'm still not sure where those Dr. Seuss trees are. They could very well have been where we were going next, but I really can't tell and I didn't think to look for them when we got there.

I got a little confused when Kickeniuk took a sharp right turn that I didn't remember having to take last year. I stopped. My map was no help. Phyllis called a local friend, but he wasn't sure where we were. I went straight for a bit. I remembered having to cross a little bridge over the river, but the brige ahead didn't look right. I remembered green; this wasn't green. I doubled back.

"Let's get lost," Mike whined.

"No." Not with six people, one a newcomer, and a huge ridge to get across.

"But you got to go over the bridge and I didn't."

"So go over the fucking bridge." I was feeling a bit shaky and light-headed. I downed the rest of my non-caffeinated Shot Bloks. I still had a pile of caffeinated ones, but they were off limits for the rest of the day.

Lenny saved the day with his Google Maps connection.

Now was as good a time as any to warn everyone about what was coming next. "We're going to go up a 350-foot hill," I said. "Near the top it'll level off and to the right will be a great view of the valley. I'm going to stop for pictures. After that is the Fucking Hill and after that we'll be finished with the big climbs."

I explained the Fucking Hill. I don't remember exactly what I said, but here's the blog entry from last year:

At the top Cheryl says, “I don’t think I can do any more hills.” Not do hills? She must be tired. We wait in the shade. As the guys arrive I tell them that we should be finished climbing.

I’m wrong, of course, because the minute we turn left onto Sidney Road there’s a hill there to mock us. And when we turn right onto West Sidney the road isn’t flat either. It’s not long before we’re facing an asphalt wall. Down go the gears. I’m not even trying now, just spinning quickly enough and slowly enough to keep moving.

Cheryl is a hundred yards or so ahead of me when I hear her. “Fucking HILL!” I smile, but I’m worried. It’s too soon for anyone to come apart. At the top she is leaning over her handlebars. “I can’t do one more hill,” she says. The guys are quiet when they get up to us.

So that's what we'd have coming. At least we knew this time. We took the sharp turn and wound up on the green bridge.

Spring Hill wasn't nearly as taxing this time. The first plateau appeared before I'd even thought the worst had begun. Five of us stopped; Phyllis went ahead. The neat thing about this vista is that it's the only break in the trees on either side of us.





By now, even though we were tired, Mike and I were realizing that it was the heat, not the inclines, that made the past two attempts at this course so miserable. Sidney Road rolls a little. After a small climb Theresa asked, "Is this the Fucking Hill?"

"No, it's later. I remember being in the middle of the road for some reason, with houses all around." We were still in farms.

Then it was in front of us. "Say it with me now: Fucking Hill!" I shouted. But the climb really wasn't that bad. For some reason I was in the middle of the road again.

Now the worst was over. We even got into our big chain rings on our way to Perricone's in Pittstown.

"This is where the cops were hanging out last time," Mike said. There was a police car in the lot today. The door to the bathroom had an "out of order" sign but the owner let us use it; it worked fine.

We could have eaten outside at one of the picnic tables on the deck, but instead we plopped down at a long table in the cool indoors. Chris bought a bag of chips. When questioned, he said, "Salt."

Phyllis was amused by a bottle of coffee soda. She held it out. "If I buy this will one of you try it?"

I said, "I will," so she did and took a sip.

"Phah!" she grimaced and held the bottle away from herself.

I gave it a try. Same grimace. "It tastes like an ashtray."

"What?" Lenny said, and reached for the bottle.

"You know, alkaloids. Nicotene, caffeine." There. I got to use some of my grad school learnin'. It happens once every few years.

Lenny read the ingredients: espresso, sugar, and carbonated water.

"It's just wrong," I said. He didn't think it was that bad.

If any of you out there want to give it a try, it's called "Manhattan Special." They have a website.

Not that my choice of drink was much better. I'd wound up with a Diet Coke -- more caffeine -- because it was the only cold sugar-free option apart from bottled water, which I refuse to drink on environmental principles (yeah, I wrote that Eco-Tip).

After I finished the other half of my sandwich I checked the map again. "We're going to have to climb a bit more before the three-mile downhill." I showed Lenny where we'd been. "This is the Fucking Hill," I said. Mike shushed me; a little kid was sitting at a table by the window. I kept forgetting, though, and he kept shushing me.

Route 579 rolls out of Pittstown towards Bloomsbury. My legs felt like rubber. Even on what looked like level ground I was only going 11 mph; the level ground was on an incline, and it seemed to last forever. I remembered this part from last year. I was pretty wrecked then; I was just getting tired now. The road seemed to go on forever. At each curve, at each crest, I thought, "We must be getting to the end of it." But we hadn't even crossed Michelin Corner yet.

Finally I saw Rick Road. We went downhill about three miles without pedaling. There was a little rise on Stamets but for the most part we coasted down that one, too. We could smell the barn. What rollers there were seemed tiny and we powered up them.

The last hill we got to cut short because our turn was right in the middle of it. In a few minutes we were back by the Delaware River, following it south.

"Is this Route 12?" Mike asked. This is why I don't trust his sense of direction.

Theresa pulled us home. We got to the parking lot with just under 62 miles. I couldn't resist going around the block to make the metric official.

Ordinary Riding

16 and 17 April

Thursday:

"You can so do Goat Hill," I told Hilda over the phone. "Just don't tell me," she said.

Saturday:

Cheryl called around 7:30. She thought the ride started at 9 so she'd meet us in Pennington.

I didn't get as far as Mike's house. Chris, Mary, and Linda were at the corner. It was Chris' idea to call Mike when he didn't show up in his own driveway at 8. He thought we were going to meet at 8:30. "I'll be ready in five minutes!" he said. I sent Mary, Linda, and Chris on to Pennington; I went on to Mike's house.

I couldn't figure what all the confusion was about. The ride was in the book and I posted the time on the blog, too. Neither Mike nor Cheryl had checked.

Nerves had Mike flying down the road. "Don't burn it all out here," I said. "We have plenty of time."

Hilda drove past us. She called out, "I thought you'd be there by now!" Mike muttered an apology. "We have plenty of time," I said.

It was foggy. Rain wasn't in the forecast until later. I figured we could get to Sergeantsville and back and stay dry.

Just beyond the YMCA parking lot in Pennington, Main Street was blocked off. Pennington Day. We'd have to go around. Cars were already filling the lot when we turned in. It took me a few seconds to figure out who in the crowd was riding.

I was doing my usual pre-ride stuff: taking off my sunglasses, digging around for the sign-in sheet and pen, talking to whomever, when I heard, "Waaaal-eeeee!"

"EEEVA!" I gave her a big hug. "I thought you dropped off the face of the earth!" Her other half was at home today.

When the sign-in sheet finished going around there were fourteen people on it. I promised not to do anything crazy today. Chris told me later that there were far more women than men on the ride. This is a rare thing for a B ride.

We headed westward out of Pennington in the fog. Eva and I caught each other up on our lives since January.

Mike said the fog was "like Bear Mountain." I said it wasn't that bad. I could see ahead of us well enough, even if we had to stop every few miles to collectively wipe our glasses.

A small group of riders ahead of us started up Poor Farm. We turned onto Woosamonsa, then Bear Tavern, left onto Pleasant Valley-Harbourton Road, right on Pleasant Valley, and right on Valley; in other words, towards Goat Hill.

Somewhere on Valley Road is a "gravity hill," that supposedly pulls cars up. Years of cycling on the road has left us mystified, but today I think I might have found it. We were going downhill gradually, and there was a little rise in front of us. I didn't have to pedal to get over it. Nobody was close enough to me for me to say anything, though. I'll have to try it again.

I found Hilda in the crowd and pedaled next to her as we turned off Valley. "This hill has three false tops," I told her. That's what Alan told me the first time I went up.

"Around this first bend is a great view. You can see Bowman's Tower in Pennsylvania," I told her. But there was fog in the way. "Bowman's what now?" I asked.

"This second part isn't bad. It's just long." We made small talk.

"This last bit is the worst," I said. She said, "Don't tell me," but I told her about the one time I went up here when a guy got to the top and leaned against a mailbox. The whole thing gave way. "So when we see the mailbox we're done."

It took longer than I remembered, but when we passed it I told Hilda, "Congratulations! You just climbed Goat Hill."

"This is Goat Hill?!"

This woman can climb; she just doesn't believe it. She's tougher than she knows.

We took my usual route over the ridge, down Dinosaur Hill, and to the Mount Airy church. The cow pasture was empty.

At the corner I asked, "Has anyone not seen the covered bridge?" Mary said, "I haven't," so I said we'd go there.

The bridge is one-way. Picture fourteen people in a line making a lazy loop through the bridge, calling out, "U-turn!" and doubling back.

At the Sergeantsville General Store Sun greeted me with his usual, "Long time, no see!" I finally said, "I always feel so guilty when you say that." As good as this place is, I can't come here every weekend.

The fog had finally lifted by the time we started up again. I took Back Brook for the view, and then we zig-zagged back up the Sourland Mountain, starting on Runyon Mill.

Every time I get on this road I remember the day that Cheryl, I, and the long-lost Jeff K went on a long ride from Cheryl's house when she lived in Hopewell. It was hot, the route was hilly, and this was our last big climb of the ride. Jeff, as always, was quiet while Cheryl and I grumbled. I said to him, "I bet you feel like a spring chicken."

"Nope," he said.

"Fried chicken?"

We were going about 10 mph. "No sprinting," Jeff said.

"I am sprinting," I replied.

From then on that day was known as the Fried Chicken Ride, and from that day on I've avoided Runyon Mill.

Cheryl and I debated the best way back to Pennington without having to walk fourteen bikes through a street festival. We settled on Old Mill to Federal City.

On Wargo Frank said the sun would come out. We didn't believe him, but when we turned onto Old Mill I saw my shadow.

We made it back to the lot with a few more miles than I'd planned, but nobody was complaining. Cheryl went off to lunch with Blake. Mike, Chris, Mary, Linda, and I headed home. Mary peeled off; she was going to ride all the way back to New Egypt.

We rode Linda back to Mike's house, hung out there for a bit, then went onto mine for a metric.

Chris and Mike puttered around in the back yard for a few minutes, Chris to check on the blue spruce Christmas tree he'd helped us plant a handful of years ago, and Mike to say that he wanted bamboo like we have.

"No, you don't," Chris and I said in unison. I kicked over a new shoot that had poked up too far into the yard.

Jack came out onto the screened porch to say hello.

Chris chuckled at the pitch pine we'd been coaxing to grow towards the sun. "I gave up," I told him. "It's a pitch pine. It's doing it's pitch pine thing." Which, in typical pitch pine fashion, means growing every which way but up.

Chris told us where tomorrow's ride would be. I couldn't picture Pond Road, so Chris drew a map in the dust on the garage wall.

Then they left. I went inside and stuffed my face.


Sunday:

I got rained on a little on my way over to Mike's, but we decided we'd go on to the Pond Road Middle School parking lot for Bob S's ride anyway. Chris called to find out what we were doing. "We're heading over. It could be different in an hour anyway." Chris said the forecast seemed random.

Once in a while we got spat on. We got to the lot early. I was sweating in my shell jacket. I have yet to find one that breathes and keeps me dry at the same time. I hung it over my handlebars to dry out.

Eventually Bob showed up, then Chris, who rode over, then Herb, then Norm (who'd been on my Poor Farm Roasts the Fixies ride).

Unsure of the weather, and because Mike and I rode over ("What about Chris?" "Aah, he doesn't count."), Bob decided we'd stay local. When he found out I'd never been there we headed for Chambersburg, the once-upon-a-time thriving restaurant neighborhood in Trenton.

Mike was thrilled to be riding on Nottingham and Route 33. I wasn't, nor was Chris.

Norm got a flat when his patched tube leaked. He replaced it with another patched tube, which leaked, and settled on a third. It held for a handful of minutes before it started to leak, so he turned back and we went on.

When we got close to the train station I told the guys about the renovated old houses across from the station. We stopped to have a look.

I pass these houses every day. They're being renovated for use as offices.








I'm especially fond of this one because it has a room at the top with windows on all four sides. That would so be my bead room if I lived there:









While I wandered around to take pictures Herb went behind the one on the corner. As I returned he emerged. Bob said, "Anything interesting back there?"

"A rat ran over my foot," Herb said.

Next to us a streetlamp was down:



Bob, a Trenton native, took us on a circuitous route through the Chambersburg streets. It was Sunday morning and there was less traffic here than we'd normally see Mercer County's farmland roads.

We passed the Roebling Market, which looked as if it held an outdoor farmers' market. Behind it was what might once have been a factory but was now filled with stores. It looked intriguing, and Mike and I thought we should come back. (A Google search at home, though, showed it to be just another mall full of chain stores. Sigh.)

I'd never been to De Lorenzo's, the home of tomato pie so good that people line up outside to eat there. It's also famous for not having a bathroom; you have to pee before you leave the house.

Across the street from the restaurant is a wiry, factory-looking thing:



Here's the pizza. The store was closed:



Chris, complaining about the ugly houses and all the stop-starting we were doing, cursed over a flat. While he fixed it I took this picture. I don't think the houses are ugly. They've got more character than any McMansions we see out in the once farmland.



Then there was this boarded-up something-or-other:



Before De Lorenzo's, Herb said, "We have to go to Rossi's. Best hamburgers in New Jersey."

I said, "Wouldn't that be a point of some contention?"

"Nope," he said, "Best burgers, hands down."




Mike was taken with the Joe DiMaggio sign next to the store. I don't remember what it said, but it was along the lines of "Joe DiMaggio was here a lot."

On our way out of the city we passed a ballfield named for him.

Chris grumbled about the ugly Hamilton suburb; then we were somehow on an on-ramp and off again, and just as suddenly the houses disappeared and I knew where we were. South Broad, where the houses end and the farms begin. Just like that we were out of the city and back onto our regular stomping ground.

We decided we'd stop at the bakery in Hamilton, formerly Hoffman's, now taken over by an Italian family. I hadn't been there in so long I didn't know it'd changed hands over a year ago.

Bob took us the long way, south then east then north again, the wind picking up and pushing against us over open fields.

The smell of black locust flowers was strong.

We got to the bakery at 11:30. Half of the shelves were empty. It turns out that you have to get there before 11:00 on Sundays. When the churches let out, the store runs out. Bob and Herb shared a sugary, raspberry thing. I inhaled my Jack Bread PB-Nutella & J sandwich. So much for having lunch at home. I called Jack to tell him to eat without me. I drank something calling itself coffee.

The route home was into the wind. I was pretty trashed, and hungry, too. At the end of Windsor Road Mike and I peeled off. We entered the Vortex -- the winding road through Mercer County Park that will have stiff headwinds on a dead calm day no matter which way you're facing -- and fought our way to the other side.

When I got home I stuffed my face.

23 May Hill Slug Ad Hoc

OK, we're going for it: the Double Reservoir Ride. The last two times we tried this the weather was beastly. Saturday promises to be nearly perfect.

We'll see Spruce Run and Round Valley Reservoirs on this scenic ride. There will be a few big hills and a smattering of rollers, but the scenery is worth the climbing. There will be two rest stops as well.

The distance will be something in the 65-mile neighborhood.

Meet at 8:30 a.m. at the upper (farther from the river) parking lot at the Bridge Street Cafe in Frenchtown.

(Update: I just called both rest stops and they'll be open. Can't bee too cautious these days...)

Twenty!

19 May

Today is Cleio's twentieth birthday. As is her right, she slept through most of it.

Here's the Old Girl in her favorite daytime sleeping spot: the few inches of free surface not covered by Jack's paper avalanche on the sofa in the computer room.



Cleio's day goes something like this:

5:30 a.m.: Meow-gurgle in my face in order to ensure that I don't get a full night's sleep uninterrupted. Should this not elicit a response, a gentle claw in my arm is warranted.

6:10 a.m.: Greet me with another "Nurrr!" as I turn off the alarm. Gurgle all the way to the bathroom and dutifully wait for the glucosamine-infused dollop of Fancy Feast and the foul blood pressure pill. "Meeowf!" again for fresh water.




6:30 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.: Alternate between sleeping, yowling for Feline LP (grrrravy!) on the dining room table, peering around cautiously for a marauding Burnaby, and standing just-so on Jack's wrists as he types on his laptop computer.

7:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.: Relocate to the lower level sofa, alternating between Jack and my lap, depending on which one of us is eating the more complicated food. The goal is to position self between plate and mouth.

10:00 p.m.: Move to whichever room I'm in and nurgle-gurgle for the nighttime smattering of Greenies. Follow me from room to room until said Greenies are dispensed.

11:00 p.m.: Scramble onto the bed. Position is crucial here; I must not be able to turn over without maneuvering around the Birthday Girl.




In order to be fair, here's a picture of Burnaby, hamming it up with some catnip: