29 August
This one was Cheryl's idea: the Chocolate Bunny Ride.
We usually run this on Easter, but it's been a long time since we went to the Bagel B.O.P. in Amwell.
The route starts in Pennington, climbs over the Sourland Mountain, stops in Amwell, then continues on down the D&R Canal. From there we avoid the mountain by taking a flat to rolling route home. It's about 50 miles.
Meet at the Hopewell YMCA parking lot on Main Street in Pennington at 8:30 a.m. This is not an official PFW ride. Pace-pushers will be ditched at our earliest convenience.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Watersheds
23 August
*****
A propos to nothing, here's a picture I took last week on the way to Belmar as we were stopped for the passing of a commuter train. Real old-timey.
*****
There's so much rain the back yard is flooded.
Phyllis is calling to say she's stuck in traffic. Trees are down, she reports, and something was on fire. I give her back road directions, grab the compost bag, pull off my socks, put on my 25-year-old Docksides, and wade ankle-high to the compost pile. Water is pouring out of the rain barrel's overflow valve so quickly that I can wash my hands under it.
Marilyn arrives, looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Now, I've coached her on how to be a Hill Slug, but I didn't expect her to copy my doofus crash too. I think she outdid me on this one. I only got my leg; she got her face, shoulder, both knees, and her left hip. But, as I did, she got back on her bike and finished her ride.
I'm still shaking water out of my hair when Cheryl, Mike, and Theresa walk in. Princeton Pike at Franklin Corner is under water. Hilda had to go around, too. Bakers Basin is flooded near Route 1. Phyllis gets in before Gordon and Terry, who, like Hilda, had to worm their way around Hamilton to higher ground. In the end, Marilyn, who lives farthest away, had the easiest time getting here. What we'll do to avoid just sitting around on a Saturday night.
The rain stops and the last guests leave around 11:30. The last time I look at the clock I'm at the computer checking tomorrow's weather. The forecast at midnight is still ambiguous. I don't look at the clock when I get into bed. I have to be up at 6:45 to check the weather if I'm going to cancel the ride.
It's too dark when the alarm clock goes off. I stagger out of bed to the windows at the front of the house. There's still water on the screens but the road is starting to dry out. Three online weather sites give me three different predictions. I'm going with the street: the ride is on.
Twice on the way to Lambertville I need the wipers. Ahead the sky is clearing. I half expect to be the only one there: Smolenyak has already called to tell me he met rain in Bound Brook and turned around.
The drizzle stops before I reach the parking lot on Cherry Street. Frank and Phyllis are already there. Mighty Mike pulls in.
I give them the run-down: We'll climb out of here, stay on the ridge for a while, coast into Clinton, probably get lost, climb out again, get a three-mile downhill, cross the Delaware to Upper Black Eddy, and climb out again on the Jersey Side. It should be sixty miles.
The air is thick and my inner thighs hurt. I'd expected to feel draggy, but why do my legs hurt? This is not good, not good at all. We bounce down Lower Creek Road. The water in the Wickecheeoke is raging to the Delaware.
Our first climb is Upper Creek, the "Twin Towers," as Michael Heffler calls it. "This one's a double-humper," I warn. I drag myself up. By the time I reach the top my legs don't hurt anymore. Huh. Too many flat rides lately perhaps? Whatever. Now I won't have to panic.
I just missed the turn from Featherbed onto Hammer. I'd have kept on going if Mike hadn't asked, "Did you see the name of that road?" So we turn around.
We're back in the land of weird road names, up on the same ridge as Goose Island, Rake, Joe Ent, Senator Stout, Hog Hollow, Bonetown, Whiskey, and Boar's Head. So Hammer doesn't seem very out of place. To bikers "hammer" is a verb meaning to switch into high gear and disappear. Up here who knows what it means?
We're near Locktown, which also mystifies me. The name would make sense down by the D&R Canal, but we're miles from it, far above it. Well, I suppose if you have hammers and rakes you might as well have locks. Then we pass over a creek. A sign by the bridge reads, "Lockatong Creek."
Lockatong. Locktown. Duuuuh. [Ah! Here we go. Nifty little church by the way. Carol Heffler performed in there with her jazz ensemble a couple of years ago.]
I'm not thinking much about the origin of the next road: Barbertown-Point Breeze. But I do point out Slacktown when we get there.
All this time we've been slowly going up, climbing out of the Delaware River watershed. When we turn onto West Sidney, home of the Fucking Hill, we'll be entering the watershed of the (say it with me now) Raritan River. At least this time we're descending the Fucking Hill. It's a pretty good downhill, if a little bumpy. But the road climbs in this direction too. Nefarious in both directions. Well done, West Sidney.
From here it really is all downhill, nearly five hundred feet. We're going so quickly I see the next turn zip past. It's not worth turning around; there are other ways to get into Clinton. So I stop and check the map. Instead of taking Landsdown we'll take Lower Landsdown. The two roads meet anyway and we'll have spared ourselves a hundred feet of up-and-down.
Smolnenyak told me to look for the cement pineapples near the railroad underpass. I point them out. "Yummers!" Phyllis says.
We start to see people walking dogs, riding cruiser bikes, and walking in packs in the street. We're almost in Clinton.
"Oyyyy! Oyyyy!" Phyllis calls out as we cross a double set of tracks. That's why I always stand up. "But buster!" she says.
To get to Main Street, which is one way, we have to cross the (take a guess!) South Branch of the Raritan River twice. The first is a boring concrete bridge on a boring state road across the street from a boring convenience store (good to know it's there though). The second is one of those steel bridges with a steel surface. I look down. Through the mesh I can see straight into the water. That's a little disconcerting.
Phyllis has been here before, so she leads us to a waterfront restaurant next to the bridge. Next to it, closer to us, is a coffee shop. Perfect. It's not much bigger than a closet inside but it has what we need: cookies, muffins, and house-roasted beans. I look at the bags. I didn't wear a coffee-hauling jersey today. With the maps taking up a third of the space there's no room for a pound of beans.
A sign on the wall announces that Citispot Coffee is open every day. The chatty fellow behind the counter looks at us and declares that we need our coffee iced. I ask what beans he's brewing. "House blend," he says, but he won't give away what's in the mix. "Not Sumatran. Not Ethiopian. Not Guatemalan. Better than Starbucks."
He hands it over. It's not the best dark brew I've tasted, but it's good enough. Very strong. He gives Frank his cup. "You'll want milk in it," I warn him. I drink mine black.
Mike has a table for us near the bridge. A white terrier wanders by, ignoring us the way any self-respecting cat would. Frank comes out with his coffee nearly white with milk. Phyllis looks at his and at mine, and she laughs. She tries his first. I make her try mine. "Whoah!" she laughs. "How do you drink that stuff?" Practice.
Mike tells us that the old men in Italy drink grappa with their espresso in the morning.
Phyllis and Frank talk outside of Citispot:
We've loitered long enough. We pedal down Main Street, a twee block that might make for a pleasant couple of hours on foot someday after a hike at Round Valley. But once we're off Main Street we're back in the typical suburban yuck that is Anywhere, New Jersey.
We turn on Union Street, onto a surprise hill. I fumble with my cue sheet and nearly fall over, catching myself by veering out into the left lane, coming a bit too close to a pickup truck that slowed when I teetered. There's my little bit of mountain bike experience paying for itself.
The terrain is rolling, slowly taking us uphill. At the top, on both sides, we can see the ridges of the Highlands fading into the haze. "We're definitely coming back here in the fall," I announce. The coffee takes hold.
We cross over Route 78 and ride on a frontage road shielded from the highway by tall bushes. Every once in a while we can see a thin ribbon of cars moving over the hills. Eventually the road turns away from the highway and we're climbing out of the Raritan watershed.
The road is called Baptist Church. I stop at the Bethlehem Baptist Church, or what's left of it, for some pictures:
We've got 380 feet of climbing ahead of us, spread over a couple of miles. For a while we're under a thick canopy of trees. Then we're in open fields. It's hot. This here is a bit of work. Phyllis drops her chain but tells us to keep going. When the road starts to level off I stop to make sure she's okay. I turn around and here's the view:
We're not quite finished with this road, nor the climb, but at least the trees are back.
Then I see a road sign that reads, "Scotch Willie." We've got to be back on the ridge. The names are getting weird again.
Here's the payoff: Rick Road. Almost three miles of downhill. If you crouch at the right time you can do the whole thing without pedaling. Two thirds of the way down I remember that I forgot to crouch. I've run out of steam. Ahead of me Mike is trying valiantly not to pedal but he doesn't make it either. At the bottom Frank wants to know what town we're in. I haven't got a clue. While he eats a banana I consult the maps. "Mount Pleasant."
Frank says, "After a downhill like that you know we're going to have to climb."
"Not really," I tell him. "We're heading to the river. It'll be mostly downhill." Mostly. There are a few hard rollers in our path.
We take Stamets Road all the way to the river. Through the haze we can see the hills of Pennsylvania. That's where we're headed.
In Milford we walk our bikes over the bridge. There's a sign that warns us not to jump. Frank looks at it and says, "You have to kill yourself to get a ticket around here."
At the Homestead General Store I have just enough money for an iced decaf, PB&J, and a bag of "Steady Eddy," the decaf version of their "Black Eddy Darkness" brew (not as strong as "Dead Man's Brew," which I already have at home). I don't need the maps anymore, so I can tuck them away and make room for the beans.
The store owner warns us not to sit outside today. The bees are out there. I ask her about the tortie kitten who was here a few months ago, the one who was too afraid to be petted. "She found a home. She just jumped onto someone's lap and that was it. She wouldn't come near me." She shrugs and smiles.
We sit around a small table. "We have a decision to make," I say. I'd planned to climb up Fairview and take 519 into Stockton, but if we feel like it we can skip the hills and rollers and just ride along the river back to Lambertville. "We can decide when we get there," I tell them.
At the Frenchtown bridge, as we dismount for the walk, I ask, "Well, what do you say? Fairview or fuck it?"
Frank says, "Fuck it!"
"Consider it fucked. Just 'cause it's there doesn't mean we have to climb it."
Frank says, "They don't call us Hill Slugs for nothin'."
The Delaware River from the Frenchtown bridge, looking south:
One thing Hill Slugs are good at is having enough energy to hammer down Route 29 after 45 miles of climbing. Mighty Mike takes the lead.
I'm a little confused when we pass a sign that tells us we have ten more miles to Lambertville. But when I think about it I realize that the river bends westward between Frenchtown and Stockton. Route 519, up in the hills, is more of a straight line.
Somewhere near Bulls Island I feel a few raindrops. Ahead of us is more than mist. We catch up with the shower and ride through it in less than a mile. But the storm is chasing us. By the time the power lines at Route 202 come into view we're pretty much soaked.
We turn onto Cherry Street, where the parking lot is. Mike stretches his arms out to meet the rain full-on. Phyllis and I do the same thing when we get off our bikes. We're all laughing.
*****
A propos to nothing, here's a picture I took last week on the way to Belmar as we were stopped for the passing of a commuter train. Real old-timey.
*****
There's so much rain the back yard is flooded.
Phyllis is calling to say she's stuck in traffic. Trees are down, she reports, and something was on fire. I give her back road directions, grab the compost bag, pull off my socks, put on my 25-year-old Docksides, and wade ankle-high to the compost pile. Water is pouring out of the rain barrel's overflow valve so quickly that I can wash my hands under it.
Marilyn arrives, looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Now, I've coached her on how to be a Hill Slug, but I didn't expect her to copy my doofus crash too. I think she outdid me on this one. I only got my leg; she got her face, shoulder, both knees, and her left hip. But, as I did, she got back on her bike and finished her ride.
I'm still shaking water out of my hair when Cheryl, Mike, and Theresa walk in. Princeton Pike at Franklin Corner is under water. Hilda had to go around, too. Bakers Basin is flooded near Route 1. Phyllis gets in before Gordon and Terry, who, like Hilda, had to worm their way around Hamilton to higher ground. In the end, Marilyn, who lives farthest away, had the easiest time getting here. What we'll do to avoid just sitting around on a Saturday night.
The rain stops and the last guests leave around 11:30. The last time I look at the clock I'm at the computer checking tomorrow's weather. The forecast at midnight is still ambiguous. I don't look at the clock when I get into bed. I have to be up at 6:45 to check the weather if I'm going to cancel the ride.
It's too dark when the alarm clock goes off. I stagger out of bed to the windows at the front of the house. There's still water on the screens but the road is starting to dry out. Three online weather sites give me three different predictions. I'm going with the street: the ride is on.
Twice on the way to Lambertville I need the wipers. Ahead the sky is clearing. I half expect to be the only one there: Smolenyak has already called to tell me he met rain in Bound Brook and turned around.
The drizzle stops before I reach the parking lot on Cherry Street. Frank and Phyllis are already there. Mighty Mike pulls in.
I give them the run-down: We'll climb out of here, stay on the ridge for a while, coast into Clinton, probably get lost, climb out again, get a three-mile downhill, cross the Delaware to Upper Black Eddy, and climb out again on the Jersey Side. It should be sixty miles.
The air is thick and my inner thighs hurt. I'd expected to feel draggy, but why do my legs hurt? This is not good, not good at all. We bounce down Lower Creek Road. The water in the Wickecheeoke is raging to the Delaware.
Our first climb is Upper Creek, the "Twin Towers," as Michael Heffler calls it. "This one's a double-humper," I warn. I drag myself up. By the time I reach the top my legs don't hurt anymore. Huh. Too many flat rides lately perhaps? Whatever. Now I won't have to panic.
I just missed the turn from Featherbed onto Hammer. I'd have kept on going if Mike hadn't asked, "Did you see the name of that road?" So we turn around.
We're back in the land of weird road names, up on the same ridge as Goose Island, Rake, Joe Ent, Senator Stout, Hog Hollow, Bonetown, Whiskey, and Boar's Head. So Hammer doesn't seem very out of place. To bikers "hammer" is a verb meaning to switch into high gear and disappear. Up here who knows what it means?
We're near Locktown, which also mystifies me. The name would make sense down by the D&R Canal, but we're miles from it, far above it. Well, I suppose if you have hammers and rakes you might as well have locks. Then we pass over a creek. A sign by the bridge reads, "Lockatong Creek."
Lockatong. Locktown. Duuuuh. [Ah! Here we go. Nifty little church by the way. Carol Heffler performed in there with her jazz ensemble a couple of years ago.]
I'm not thinking much about the origin of the next road: Barbertown-Point Breeze. But I do point out Slacktown when we get there.
All this time we've been slowly going up, climbing out of the Delaware River watershed. When we turn onto West Sidney, home of the Fucking Hill, we'll be entering the watershed of the (say it with me now) Raritan River. At least this time we're descending the Fucking Hill. It's a pretty good downhill, if a little bumpy. But the road climbs in this direction too. Nefarious in both directions. Well done, West Sidney.
From here it really is all downhill, nearly five hundred feet. We're going so quickly I see the next turn zip past. It's not worth turning around; there are other ways to get into Clinton. So I stop and check the map. Instead of taking Landsdown we'll take Lower Landsdown. The two roads meet anyway and we'll have spared ourselves a hundred feet of up-and-down.
Smolnenyak told me to look for the cement pineapples near the railroad underpass. I point them out. "Yummers!" Phyllis says.
We start to see people walking dogs, riding cruiser bikes, and walking in packs in the street. We're almost in Clinton.
"Oyyyy! Oyyyy!" Phyllis calls out as we cross a double set of tracks. That's why I always stand up. "But buster!" she says.
To get to Main Street, which is one way, we have to cross the (take a guess!) South Branch of the Raritan River twice. The first is a boring concrete bridge on a boring state road across the street from a boring convenience store (good to know it's there though). The second is one of those steel bridges with a steel surface. I look down. Through the mesh I can see straight into the water. That's a little disconcerting.
Phyllis has been here before, so she leads us to a waterfront restaurant next to the bridge. Next to it, closer to us, is a coffee shop. Perfect. It's not much bigger than a closet inside but it has what we need: cookies, muffins, and house-roasted beans. I look at the bags. I didn't wear a coffee-hauling jersey today. With the maps taking up a third of the space there's no room for a pound of beans.
A sign on the wall announces that Citispot Coffee is open every day. The chatty fellow behind the counter looks at us and declares that we need our coffee iced. I ask what beans he's brewing. "House blend," he says, but he won't give away what's in the mix. "Not Sumatran. Not Ethiopian. Not Guatemalan. Better than Starbucks."
He hands it over. It's not the best dark brew I've tasted, but it's good enough. Very strong. He gives Frank his cup. "You'll want milk in it," I warn him. I drink mine black.
Mike has a table for us near the bridge. A white terrier wanders by, ignoring us the way any self-respecting cat would. Frank comes out with his coffee nearly white with milk. Phyllis looks at his and at mine, and she laughs. She tries his first. I make her try mine. "Whoah!" she laughs. "How do you drink that stuff?" Practice.
Mike tells us that the old men in Italy drink grappa with their espresso in the morning.
Phyllis and Frank talk outside of Citispot:
We've loitered long enough. We pedal down Main Street, a twee block that might make for a pleasant couple of hours on foot someday after a hike at Round Valley. But once we're off Main Street we're back in the typical suburban yuck that is Anywhere, New Jersey.
We turn on Union Street, onto a surprise hill. I fumble with my cue sheet and nearly fall over, catching myself by veering out into the left lane, coming a bit too close to a pickup truck that slowed when I teetered. There's my little bit of mountain bike experience paying for itself.The terrain is rolling, slowly taking us uphill. At the top, on both sides, we can see the ridges of the Highlands fading into the haze. "We're definitely coming back here in the fall," I announce. The coffee takes hold.
We cross over Route 78 and ride on a frontage road shielded from the highway by tall bushes. Every once in a while we can see a thin ribbon of cars moving over the hills. Eventually the road turns away from the highway and we're climbing out of the Raritan watershed.
The road is called Baptist Church. I stop at the Bethlehem Baptist Church, or what's left of it, for some pictures:
We've got 380 feet of climbing ahead of us, spread over a couple of miles. For a while we're under a thick canopy of trees. Then we're in open fields. It's hot. This here is a bit of work. Phyllis drops her chain but tells us to keep going. When the road starts to level off I stop to make sure she's okay. I turn around and here's the view:
We're not quite finished with this road, nor the climb, but at least the trees are back.Then I see a road sign that reads, "Scotch Willie." We've got to be back on the ridge. The names are getting weird again.
Here's the payoff: Rick Road. Almost three miles of downhill. If you crouch at the right time you can do the whole thing without pedaling. Two thirds of the way down I remember that I forgot to crouch. I've run out of steam. Ahead of me Mike is trying valiantly not to pedal but he doesn't make it either. At the bottom Frank wants to know what town we're in. I haven't got a clue. While he eats a banana I consult the maps. "Mount Pleasant."
Frank says, "After a downhill like that you know we're going to have to climb."
"Not really," I tell him. "We're heading to the river. It'll be mostly downhill." Mostly. There are a few hard rollers in our path.
We take Stamets Road all the way to the river. Through the haze we can see the hills of Pennsylvania. That's where we're headed.
In Milford we walk our bikes over the bridge. There's a sign that warns us not to jump. Frank looks at it and says, "You have to kill yourself to get a ticket around here."
At the Homestead General Store I have just enough money for an iced decaf, PB&J, and a bag of "Steady Eddy," the decaf version of their "Black Eddy Darkness" brew (not as strong as "Dead Man's Brew," which I already have at home). I don't need the maps anymore, so I can tuck them away and make room for the beans.
The store owner warns us not to sit outside today. The bees are out there. I ask her about the tortie kitten who was here a few months ago, the one who was too afraid to be petted. "She found a home. She just jumped onto someone's lap and that was it. She wouldn't come near me." She shrugs and smiles.
We sit around a small table. "We have a decision to make," I say. I'd planned to climb up Fairview and take 519 into Stockton, but if we feel like it we can skip the hills and rollers and just ride along the river back to Lambertville. "We can decide when we get there," I tell them.
At the Frenchtown bridge, as we dismount for the walk, I ask, "Well, what do you say? Fairview or fuck it?"
Frank says, "Fuck it!"
"Consider it fucked. Just 'cause it's there doesn't mean we have to climb it."
Frank says, "They don't call us Hill Slugs for nothin'."
The Delaware River from the Frenchtown bridge, looking south:
One thing Hill Slugs are good at is having enough energy to hammer down Route 29 after 45 miles of climbing. Mighty Mike takes the lead.
I'm a little confused when we pass a sign that tells us we have ten more miles to Lambertville. But when I think about it I realize that the river bends westward between Frenchtown and Stockton. Route 519, up in the hills, is more of a straight line.
Somewhere near Bulls Island I feel a few raindrops. Ahead of us is more than mist. We catch up with the shower and ride through it in less than a mile. But the storm is chasing us. By the time the power lines at Route 202 come into view we're pretty much soaked.
We turn onto Cherry Street, where the parking lot is. Mike stretches his arms out to meet the rain full-on. Phyllis and I do the same thing when we get off our bikes. We're all laughing.
Hill Slug Ad Hoc, Saturday, 22 August
23 August Update
Sheesh. Every forecast I look at says something different. But the roads seem to be drying out at the moment, so let's do this thing.
22 August Update
Since the weather looks iffy for tomorrow I'll post something here by 7 a.m.
I finally did come up with a route. It's 60 miles with hills, flat roads, and the potential of getting a little lost in Clinton. There will be two rest stops.
20 August
Saturday's weather forecast looks crappy. Let's move the ride to Sunday instead.
Meet at 8:30 a.m. in the CVS parking lot on Route 29 in Lambertville. I'm not sure where we're going yet, but expect the usual 50-60 miles.
Sheesh. Every forecast I look at says something different. But the roads seem to be drying out at the moment, so let's do this thing.
22 August Update
Since the weather looks iffy for tomorrow I'll post something here by 7 a.m.
I finally did come up with a route. It's 60 miles with hills, flat roads, and the potential of getting a little lost in Clinton. There will be two rest stops.
20 August
Saturday's weather forecast looks crappy. Let's move the ride to Sunday instead.
Meet at 8:30 a.m. in the CVS parking lot on Route 29 in Lambertville. I'm not sure where we're going yet, but expect the usual 50-60 miles.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Howie Slafer, R.I.P.
20 August
Howie Slafer died today.
He was one of those guys I'd see when I first started doing B level rides. I was intimidated by all of them. But Howie wasn't at all intimidating; it was from him and a handful of others that I learned how to be a B rider. I watched what they did and I did what they did.
Howie was one of the original Hill Slugs. Never competitive, always smiling. He smiled when he talked about his computer being zapped by lightning, when he bonked on an Event century ride, and even when he had a piece of his lung removed.
He sent a lot of email. It always read, "Check out..." and linked to one thing or another that he'd found intriguing at the moment. I rarely followed the links, but it didn't matter. It was his way of telling us he was okay.
His old bike was green, like mine was.
He wore an earring.
He carried Roger McGuinn's banjo when Roger was still Jim.
His accent said he wasn't from around here.
He had the best tan in the club.
We miss him already.
Howie Slafer died today.
He was one of those guys I'd see when I first started doing B level rides. I was intimidated by all of them. But Howie wasn't at all intimidating; it was from him and a handful of others that I learned how to be a B rider. I watched what they did and I did what they did.
Howie was one of the original Hill Slugs. Never competitive, always smiling. He smiled when he talked about his computer being zapped by lightning, when he bonked on an Event century ride, and even when he had a piece of his lung removed.
He sent a lot of email. It always read, "Check out..." and linked to one thing or another that he'd found intriguing at the moment. I rarely followed the links, but it didn't matter. It was his way of telling us he was okay.
His old bike was green, like mine was.
He wore an earring.
He carried Roger McGuinn's banjo when Roger was still Jim.
His accent said he wasn't from around here.
He had the best tan in the club.
We miss him already.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Geek Chic
15 August
When two people on opposite coasts send a link to the same video on the same day one must post the link to one's blog.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vn29DvMITu4
It's so bad it's good.
When two people on opposite coasts send a link to the same video on the same day one must post the link to one's blog.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vn29DvMITu4
It's so bad it's good.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Life Explodes
2 August
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road, baby, just you wait and see.
You gotta reap just what you sow; that old saying is true.
You gotta reap just what you sow; that old saying is true.
Just like you mistreat someone, someone’s gonna mistreat you.
You been laughing pretty baby; someday you’re gonna be crying.
You been laughing pretty baby; someday you’re gonna be crying.
Further on up the road you’ll find out I wasn’t lying.
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road, baby, just you wait and see.
(Further on Up the Road by Joe Medwich Veasey and Don D. Robey)
*****
May 2009
I knew him better than I knew her. On my first B-level ride he made sure I wouldn’t get dropped. He helped teach me how to mountain bike and led us through the Pinelands. He went on my rides in the spring. He cracked jokes and drank strong coffee in Lambertville. And even though he could ride much faster than the rest of us he never showed it off.
Things had started to change in the fall but we didn’t really notice. He skipped out on us when he was supposed to lead a ride. When we saw him on the road with his faster friends a few hours later none of us believed what he said when he told us he’d gone to work in the morning. At our house on New Year’s Eve I called him a fink for it. He protested a bit too much.
He had a secure job. The house was paid off. He got new toys: two fixed-gear bikes and a sports car. He turned fifty and his wife threw him a party. A bunch of us got together and had leggings custom made to match one of his bikes. He wore them as he stood in the kitchen drinking with his fixed-gear friends. I saw the pictures later and realized that we weren’t his inner circle anymore.
He spent more and more time on his fixie with the Fixies, less and less time with his wife, and none at all with the rest of us.
Now she tells me about one more new toy and swears me to secrecy. Her life is full of cracks now. She is crying, crying, crying.
*****
June 2009
She and I talk a lot. Maybe I’m the one person from his old life he’ll listen to. But what should I say? What can I say? I like them both. I care about them both. How do I get in the middle without staying in the middle?
It takes me weeks to figure it out.
I leave him voicemail, shaking in the hallway at work after hours. I’m at a company party, mandatory, when he calls back. I sit in the grass away from the crowd and listen. He sounds, drunk, sad, remorseful, but I don’t know if it’s an act. All I can do is tell him to go back home, to fix it. He says he wants to but he can’t figure out how. I tell him to just go home, go home, go home.
*****
28 June 2009
The woman in pink has a loud voice. Everything is exciting to her. In today’s group she is the only one none of us knows.
We're flying down a southbound road somewhere east of Chesterfield. The tailwind pushes us and her voice forward. At the top of her lungs she announces what is still a secret: “----- and ----- are together!”
“You do know they’re both married.”
“----- is?”
“They both are.”
“Ohhhhhh!”
*****
3 July 2009
This is the weekend her life finally flies apart. It is public now and the exploded pieces land on all of us. Surprise, astonishment, outrage, sympathy, disbelief, and her shattered life and crying, crying, crying.
We talk to her, to each other. We do what we can to pick up her pieces but none of us really knows how to put her life back together. All we can do is to be there as she tries to rebuild.
*****
July 2009
Infidelity, that breach of trust, is the worst thing one can do to another person. Abandonment, rejection, empty hours, an empty house, and an empty life are all that is left. That and hope that he’ll come around.
They still talk, she tells me, but he spends only time enough with her to keep her hopes up and in tears when he is gone. He sees her and the house and he sees what he has done. He can’t handle it. He runs to the other one. Biking, drinking, fucking, running from the truth, numbing himself, running from himself, biking, drinking, hiding.
His so-called friends leave it alone. It’s his problem, they say, let him deal with it; we just want to do our ride and go home. It’s none of their business, they say, and he hasn’t made it their business. He’s in trouble and maybe they know it, but he’s safe with them because none is friend enough to acknowledge what is happening.
Over here we react differently. Her problem is our problem. We hardly knew her but now we know her. I’m thinking about it all the time. Everyone else is too. We see her but none of us has seen them.
Some of us were angry with him right away. It takes some time for me to get there. I have to wait until nothing has changed.
Twice I dream that I do see them. I approach and let loose my fury. I circle them as my tirade goes on, trapping them, wrapping them in my words. But when I wake all the words are gone.
*****
1 August 2009
I know there’s a good chance I’ll see them today, maybe at registration or on the road as they fly past us. Of all of us I am the only one ready to let the rage escape.
But what would I say? Invective might feel good for the moment but it would be entirely unproductive. Lecture them? There would be neither time nor space enough on the road nor at a rest stop. Should I say nothing? A cold, hard stare? That would only delay the inevitable confrontation.
On a quiet road in a paceline north of the Pinelands I land on it: One word.
One word will be enough. The word is the whole story, the truth, unavoidable, and it will be said where they have been hiding. If they have to wonder what it means then they’ll have to spend time wondering; and if they know already then it will go straight to where it needs to go without the wondering. Either way that one word will be enough. Maybe they will think I’m crazy but I never did care what she thought of me; what he thinks no longer seems to matter. With this one word I will have taken sides and will have said all that I need to say.
We’re at the first rest stop when one in our group says he’s seen them here.
“Where?”
“Up by the food,” he says.
I move in that direction. “There’s something I need to say to them.”
He puts himself in front of me, pushing me back with the side of his arm. “No,” he says. “Don’t start a fight.”
“I’m not starting a fight. One word.”
“No.”
“Just one word.”
“No!”
I stop and he stops but he doesn’t see that they’re walking towards us, one on each end of a line of four.
I step into their path. First I fix my eyes on him until he sees me. He looks miserable. There is no other way for him to look once he sees me. I turn towards her as she approaches. She starts to work on a smile but I stop her with one word, my voice a monotone, impassive. Behind me he says hello with the same impassive voice. Again the one word and they walk around me like a wave past a rock.
But one word isn’t enough. Their backs are to me now but they are still close enough for my voice to reach them, surround them, pass them: “It will be on your conscience forever!”
The one who tried to stop me is now trying to talk to me but I’m dialing. She picks up on the second ring.
“I saw them.”
“What did you say?”
“One word.”
“What was it?”
“I said your name.”
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road, baby, just you wait and see.
You gotta reap just what you sow; that old saying is true.
You gotta reap just what you sow; that old saying is true.
Just like you mistreat someone, someone’s gonna mistreat you.
You been laughing pretty baby; someday you’re gonna be crying.
You been laughing pretty baby; someday you’re gonna be crying.
Further on up the road you’ll find out I wasn’t lying.
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.
Further on up the road, baby, just you wait and see.
(Further on Up the Road by Joe Medwich Veasey and Don D. Robey)
*****
May 2009
I knew him better than I knew her. On my first B-level ride he made sure I wouldn’t get dropped. He helped teach me how to mountain bike and led us through the Pinelands. He went on my rides in the spring. He cracked jokes and drank strong coffee in Lambertville. And even though he could ride much faster than the rest of us he never showed it off.
Things had started to change in the fall but we didn’t really notice. He skipped out on us when he was supposed to lead a ride. When we saw him on the road with his faster friends a few hours later none of us believed what he said when he told us he’d gone to work in the morning. At our house on New Year’s Eve I called him a fink for it. He protested a bit too much.
He had a secure job. The house was paid off. He got new toys: two fixed-gear bikes and a sports car. He turned fifty and his wife threw him a party. A bunch of us got together and had leggings custom made to match one of his bikes. He wore them as he stood in the kitchen drinking with his fixed-gear friends. I saw the pictures later and realized that we weren’t his inner circle anymore.
He spent more and more time on his fixie with the Fixies, less and less time with his wife, and none at all with the rest of us.
Now she tells me about one more new toy and swears me to secrecy. Her life is full of cracks now. She is crying, crying, crying.
*****
June 2009
She and I talk a lot. Maybe I’m the one person from his old life he’ll listen to. But what should I say? What can I say? I like them both. I care about them both. How do I get in the middle without staying in the middle?
It takes me weeks to figure it out.
I leave him voicemail, shaking in the hallway at work after hours. I’m at a company party, mandatory, when he calls back. I sit in the grass away from the crowd and listen. He sounds, drunk, sad, remorseful, but I don’t know if it’s an act. All I can do is tell him to go back home, to fix it. He says he wants to but he can’t figure out how. I tell him to just go home, go home, go home.
*****
28 June 2009
The woman in pink has a loud voice. Everything is exciting to her. In today’s group she is the only one none of us knows.
We're flying down a southbound road somewhere east of Chesterfield. The tailwind pushes us and her voice forward. At the top of her lungs she announces what is still a secret: “----- and ----- are together!”
“You do know they’re both married.”
“----- is?”
“They both are.”
“Ohhhhhh!”
*****
3 July 2009
This is the weekend her life finally flies apart. It is public now and the exploded pieces land on all of us. Surprise, astonishment, outrage, sympathy, disbelief, and her shattered life and crying, crying, crying.
We talk to her, to each other. We do what we can to pick up her pieces but none of us really knows how to put her life back together. All we can do is to be there as she tries to rebuild.
*****
July 2009
Infidelity, that breach of trust, is the worst thing one can do to another person. Abandonment, rejection, empty hours, an empty house, and an empty life are all that is left. That and hope that he’ll come around.
They still talk, she tells me, but he spends only time enough with her to keep her hopes up and in tears when he is gone. He sees her and the house and he sees what he has done. He can’t handle it. He runs to the other one. Biking, drinking, fucking, running from the truth, numbing himself, running from himself, biking, drinking, hiding.
His so-called friends leave it alone. It’s his problem, they say, let him deal with it; we just want to do our ride and go home. It’s none of their business, they say, and he hasn’t made it their business. He’s in trouble and maybe they know it, but he’s safe with them because none is friend enough to acknowledge what is happening.
Over here we react differently. Her problem is our problem. We hardly knew her but now we know her. I’m thinking about it all the time. Everyone else is too. We see her but none of us has seen them.
Some of us were angry with him right away. It takes some time for me to get there. I have to wait until nothing has changed.
Twice I dream that I do see them. I approach and let loose my fury. I circle them as my tirade goes on, trapping them, wrapping them in my words. But when I wake all the words are gone.
*****
1 August 2009
I know there’s a good chance I’ll see them today, maybe at registration or on the road as they fly past us. Of all of us I am the only one ready to let the rage escape.
But what would I say? Invective might feel good for the moment but it would be entirely unproductive. Lecture them? There would be neither time nor space enough on the road nor at a rest stop. Should I say nothing? A cold, hard stare? That would only delay the inevitable confrontation.
On a quiet road in a paceline north of the Pinelands I land on it: One word.
One word will be enough. The word is the whole story, the truth, unavoidable, and it will be said where they have been hiding. If they have to wonder what it means then they’ll have to spend time wondering; and if they know already then it will go straight to where it needs to go without the wondering. Either way that one word will be enough. Maybe they will think I’m crazy but I never did care what she thought of me; what he thinks no longer seems to matter. With this one word I will have taken sides and will have said all that I need to say.
We’re at the first rest stop when one in our group says he’s seen them here.
“Where?”
“Up by the food,” he says.
I move in that direction. “There’s something I need to say to them.”
He puts himself in front of me, pushing me back with the side of his arm. “No,” he says. “Don’t start a fight.”
“I’m not starting a fight. One word.”
“No.”
“Just one word.”
“No!”
I stop and he stops but he doesn’t see that they’re walking towards us, one on each end of a line of four.
I step into their path. First I fix my eyes on him until he sees me. He looks miserable. There is no other way for him to look once he sees me. I turn towards her as she approaches. She starts to work on a smile but I stop her with one word, my voice a monotone, impassive. Behind me he says hello with the same impassive voice. Again the one word and they walk around me like a wave past a rock.
But one word isn’t enough. Their backs are to me now but they are still close enough for my voice to reach them, surround them, pass them: “It will be on your conscience forever!”
The one who tried to stop me is now trying to talk to me but I’m dialing. She picks up on the second ring.
“I saw them.”
“What did you say?”
“One word.”
“What was it?”
“I said your name.”
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