Tom's New Bike Adrenaline

31 July 2010

By all rights I should let Tom write first; it's his arm, after all. But I don't much feel like doing anything productive right now, so here we are.

Blake led an off-the-book ride today out of Lambertville. He tweaked the first half from one of my Hill Slug routes and put the second half in Pennsylvania.

Since don't know more than one or two roads on the other side of the river, and because I trust Blake not to drop me even though he could with one leg tied behind his back, I was keen on the trip. Tom was, too, because he wanted to climb, and we were going to tackle an unknown: Bridgeton Hill Road. It looked daunting on paper, perfect for Tom and his new climbing machine.

We gathered in the parking lot around Blake's car, where I leaned Kermit. Tom was standing, holding his bike. Wordlessly, I put my hand on it and slowly pulled it away from him. He watched me climb onto it. My feet barely reached the pedals when I sat in the saddle, but I took it on a short, slow loop in the lot anyway. It felt as if there were nothing underneath me. I dismounted and handed it back. It seems that's as close to a test-ride as I'm going to get.

Before we started, Cheryl had this to say about Tom's new-found speed and quest for steepness: "It's new bike adrenaline. It'll go away eventually."

We had perfect biking weather: sunny, warm, dry air, and a cool breeze. We had a good group, too: Blake, Tom, Cheryl, Chris, and me. All PFW ride leaders, all familiar with enough of the roads that we'd be able to keep each other from getting hopelessly lost.

This is the kind of ride that the Hill Slugs used to have, before, well, I'm not sure. Before things changed.

Anyway, the first half was mild and familiar. We stopped at the Homestead General Store in Upper Black Eddy. I took some more pictures of the store's garden along the canal.

I tanked up on Homestead's iced coffee. Even the ice cubes are coffee. I dumped them into my water bottle.

Then we headed up Bridgeton Hill. The incline started with one of those sharp turns. You know the kind: a hairpin on a zillion-degree angle, the kind of thing that just laughs at you. But that was just about the worst of it. Tom dropped his chain there during an attempt to change gears in the front and back at the same time. Generally, that doesn't work.

There was another annoying part near the top, but at that point we could see what was coming. Blake was out ahead and Tom, floating on his Cannondale cloud, was close behind. Cheryl was up there somewhere too.

I did my usual turtling upwards at my own piddling pace. I've done worse 400-foot climbs. Kermit and I can do the job; we're just not fast about it.

After that was over we paralleled the Delaware River from the top of a ridge. Blake took us to the river and then we turned up again on Dark Hollow Road. If Kermit and I had been built for any kind of hill, it would be this one: it was many miles long but not steep, and just the right grade for me to pick a rhythm (James Brown's "Get On the Good Foot") and stick with it. We got pretty spread out.

Blake warned us that the next road contained a dangerous descent. I said, "Tom, you should go last. You don't know what your new bike will do." He reassured us that he knew how it would handle. As the road bent downhill at an intersection there was a "do not enter" sign. I hesitated as I watched Tom, Blake, and Chris disappear downhill. "It says --" I began, but Cheryl said, "It's OK. It's closed to cars."

I stayed behind her, grabbing the brakes every few seconds as we twisted and turned in the shade. Around a sharp right turn Cheryl stopped and I stopped behind her.

Tom was sitting in a pile of gravel, picking pieces of the road out of his skin. He stood up. "Hold this?" he asked me, and I took his bike. The top tube isn't round; it's triangular.

Blood ran down from his right elbow. Other than that he seemed all right. We looked at the gravel. There was an arm-shaped space skidding through it, and tire tracks off to the side. Tom had some alcohol swabs and a band-aid, but there was too much blood for the adhesive to stick. We were five miles away from the Carversville General Store, where he could clean himself off properly.

"Hold up your arm," Chris said. He had his camera ready. I pulled mine out too. Why not? Anything for the blog.

"Are you sure you're okay?" we kept asking.

"He's running on adrenaline now," I said.

We went on, calling out "Gravel, Tom!" every time we saw the least bit of it in the road.

When he came out of the bathroom in Carversville his arm looked much better. It was still ugly, and some of the cuts looked deep, but at least the cut was drying out. He had road rash on his thigh, too, under his shorts, which hadn't ripped at all. We decided to cut out the last few miles of rollers and head home the flat way, along the river. It would be faster.

When we hit Route 29 I put Kermit in the big ring and pulled the group home. Kermit and I were meant to ride the flats, where my weight and a heavy steel bike come in handy once we get moving.

On my drive home I stopped in at the bike shop. There are still no 2010 Synapse Carbon 5 frames to be had in my size, although Ross has been combing the Cannondale inventory weekly. So we put an order in for a 2011 Synapse instead. He took some measurements from Kermit and we worked out some details. Now I just wait for the new inventory to arrive and try to squirrel away a few extra dollars while I'm waiting.

*****

Tom just sent us an email to tell us that his arm looks a lot better than it did this afternoon. He sent a picture, too, but I'll leave that for him to blog about. It's his arm, after all.

Flat Fifty, Lazy Fruit, and a Piggy Update

24 July 2010

The theme for this weekend seems to be scuttled plans.

First, some of the usual century gang had planned to tack some miles onto Tom's Saturday ride through the Pinelands. Tom was even going to stock his car with cold drinks for us. But then we saw the forecast: the heat index would top 100 degrees by mid-day, and even at 8 a.m. the air would already be well above 80 degrees. Tom called anyone who planned to do a hundred in this heat "bat shit crazy," and announced that he would reduce the ride's miles from 70 to 50. So much for a century this weekend.

We all drove to Bordentown instead. We had a good, stiff, breeze out of the west to push us southeast. Still, we planned to stop twice for food and water. The first stop was at a Wawa, which is a required thing to do on a ride through Burlington County. Herb, who had gone off to the woods at the edge of the lot to pee, came back and said he couldn't because a handful of Pineys were in there, drinking beer at 10 a.m.

We were almost to the second stop when Big Joe's rear tire exploded. F-bombs filled the air as he tossed useless tire levers to the ground. I gave him mine, which are steel-enforced, and he got the tire off the rim. There was an inch-long gash in the tire, so we patched it with some of the duct tape I always carry (wrapped around an old id card holder, a lot of tape can be had for very little space).

We weren't much further along, but at least we were on a shady road, when his tire went "Pfffftttt!" again. More F-b0mbs, and someone wondered if he'd gone over his F-bomb quota. He pulled out a boot -- a four-inch long section of old tire -- and placed it between the gash and a new inner tube, courtesy of Little Joe.

Tom said, "You get one more time, Joe, then we're leaving you."

I said, "I thought our love for Joe was unconditional."

Jack H. looked at me, paused, and said, "Heat getting to you?"

The tube wouldn't hold air, but the leak wasn't coming from the tear in the tire. "Fuck it," Joe said, or something to that effect. We were only about four miles from the rest stop. "I'll fit it there."

We went to the Olde World Bakery in Smithville. The big draw here is the air-conditioned inside seating, the big, clean bathrooms, and the tables outside. The food? Meh.

Today, though, we all got a treat when, as we arrived, two young women were maneuvering a large, boxed sheet cake out the door. The top was propped open by a pair of protruding icing-laced cake breasts. Nice rack on that cake.

Herb, who had carpooled with Tom, was looking for Gatorade. He told Tom he'd wait for us at the Smithville Deli a few miles up the road.

The Joes got to work on the flat tire, borrowing my levers yet again, and going through another tube and a third CO2 cartridge. Joe wasn't cursing this time. "It's much easier in a chair in the shade," he said. The tube held.

When we reached the Smithville Deli (props to Michael T. for convincing the owner that it's okay to let bikers use the bathroom), neither Herb nor his bike was there. We figured he'd gone on. We didn't have much farther to go anyway.

Somewhere north of Route 68 the hammer was collectively dropped. On 528 I even got into my 53-11 gear combo (ever pedal in deep sand? in a headwind?) in a near-miss of an attempt to catch three breakaway riders. Pedaling, though, wasn't the problem. Breathing was. I was coughing like a smoker.

We got to the parking lot a bit after noon. Although the temperature was in the mid-90s, I didn't really feel it. We'd been slowly baking all day.

Jeff said he was looking forward to a meal of cold, cut fruit waiting for him at home. "It's a guy thing: I'm too lazy to cut it myself," he said, but his wife obliges.

A few of us waited in the shade for Tom to get back, figuring he'd have Herb in tow. He didn't. Tom called his cell. No answer. We wondered if he'd just continued on home, another fifteen miles. Tom decided to do a search from his car. He emailed later to tell us he found Herb in Chesterfield, just a handful of miles away. Herb had been in the deli, in the infamous bathroom, his bike so well-hidden that none of us saw it. Next time he should just piss on the Pineys.

At home, as I cut up a cantaloupe and honeydew for lunch, I got to thinking about what fruit I'm too lazy to eat unless it's already prepared. Oranges, especially ones with seeds. Watermelons, for the same reason. Grapes with seeds. Cherries aren't worth the effort of eating around the pits. On the other hand, I'll wrangle a mango and make a mess of a melon. So, Jeff, it's not just a guy thing. Tomboys do it too.

Tomorrow I'd hoped to test-ride the Cannondale Synapse and the Cannondale Six. My Miss Piggy finger puppets arrived this week, but I didn't hear back from Ross about their search for a bike to test. So I called him today, only to find out that his Cannondale dealer is still scouring the area for one my size.

It seems that the two models, especially the Snyapse, are so popular, and my frame size so common, that there are few, if any, 2010 models to be had. "We're in between model years," Ross said, even though this discussion was taking place pretty near smack-dab in the middle of 2010. The 2011 models are on their way, he told me, and said he'd call me back with an arrival date. I said, "This is the Prius of bikes, isn't it?"

"Yep," he answered. So, here I am, an unwitting victim of the "It Bike" phenomenon. A few years back everyone wanted an Orbea (I wasn't tempted). Before that it was Serotta (no, thanks). When I joined the Free Wheelers everyone had a Bianchi (and I would have, too, if I hadn't found Kermit in Trexlertown). I had no idea the Synapse was so popular. I think I know two, maybe three people who have one. That's okay; I can wait, and put away more money. But that bike is as good as mine. (Sorry, Dad.)

The Snyapse, in Big Joe-approved colors:



The Six:

The Miss Piggy puppet, from, I kid you not, the Third Annual Ugly Toy Pageant:

Bike Envy

20 July 2010

July 11 was the day Tom led his ride to Schooley's Mountain, and the last day for his aging Miyata hill-climbing bike. On order was his new Cannondale Synapse, tricked out with a triple in the front and an 11-32 cassette in the back. "I would have gotten a 34 but they don't make it in a ten-speed," he explained.

Riding with Tom, Mike M, and Jeff (our official elevation recorder), I found myself in the back of the pack, pushing my steel Kermit up the hills. Halfway up Rockaway, Mike said that something was wrong with his shifter.

We stopped at the top, in Mountainville, to figure it out. A year ago I was taping Mike B's saddle together at this very corner. This time I was watching Mike and Tom wind what was left of the rear derailleur cable around a cable guide near the stem.

He was left with a three-speed, but Mighty Mike would not be stopped.

The way we come up with routes reminds me of the way we used to create jewelry when I worked in a bead store during the Lost Years. One of us would make something, someone else would expand on the idea, and so it went, and we all learned from each other. Up in Hunterdon County, I did a mashup of two Morris Area Freewheelers cue sheets. Tom took me route and tweaked it to get us to Schooley's Mountain. I jiggered my route some more. Tom nabbed some of those roads and took us up a different way.

This time we were taking Beavers Road from the bottom. I thought it ended at Frog Hollow, but it doesn't. I don't know which I saw first, the stop sign or the wall of asphalt on the other side. All I know is that, because I was last and no cars were coming, I had a good head of steam and sufficient warning to gear all the way down. I followed the guys to the top and we were rewarded with a view of how the other half live in Tewkesbury.



Jeff, Mike, and Tom catch their breaths and take in the view.

What little of Tom's bike is visible in this picture calls out, "Old School!"

We were on State Park Road near Hacklebarney when we saw this bifurcated tree. Power lines run through the middle of it. Technological topiary, I guess.


Another street name for the collection:

The view of Doolittle Lane from State Park Road:

Half a mile down the road gave me my obligatory hay bale snapshot.


So, anyway, Tom got his new bike that Wednesday. He emailed me that he'd be taking it out for a test run on Michael Heffler's Saturday ride out of Lambertville. If I wanted to see his new toy, he told me, I'd have to show up.

Because Heffler's rides are, well, vertical. I showed up anyway. And so did 28 other people. Michael figured he'd thin the herd by throwing a long hill in right away, so we went up Alexauken Creek and Sandy Ridge Road. That didn't work, so we snaked our way over to Raven Rock and climbed the top half of Federal Twist. That didn't work either. Michael gets a tough crowd.

I'd been keeping myself near the front of the pack during the flatter sections (it always seems safer in a big group), so I was in the lead group turning onto Federal Twist. I got a good view of the half dozen or so jackrabbits in front of me. Only Tom and I climbed the hill sitting down (I have 11-34 with my double).

By the time the road leveled off and I caught up to him I was full of questions. By the time we got to the corner I knew what I wanted for Christmas.

When we hit the rollers on 519, Tom said, "Okay. Let's see what this thing can do!" He stomped on the crank in the big ring and took off like a rocket.
This is where Kermit's steel frame and my own enormous weight come in handy; I almost caught up to him, laughing.

When I got home I told Jack right away that I have a serious case of Bike Envy. I've never had it this bad. I figured it would abate as the day wore on and I got busy with other things.

But, in the morning, as I drove up to Flemington for Larrys' Bloomsbury Boogie, the envy was still there. I don't want to get rid of Kermit. No way. He's the perfect bike for flat centuries, and he gets me up every hill I tackle, albeit slowly. But I'm tired of hauling steel when the rest of the world is floating on carbon. What if I got rid of Gonzo, my spare-part winter bike, and got a carbon frame instead?

I had plenty of time to think about it during the Boogie. I was in the back of the pack again, watching the featherweights and the jackrabbits fly up the hills. Now, one can argue that the frame is only part of the story. Lose body weight and you'll get up hills a lot easier. I know this; I've already lost, and kept off, a dozen or so pounds since the winter of 2008, and climbing has been a lot less work ever since. But I can tell that my body isn't going to give up a dozen more, and, face it, steel is heavy.

Then there's the money. Kermit was a $4K bike when I picked him up at the Trexlertown swap meet for $1500 in cash back in 2000. I've only improved upon him since. Kermit is one expensive machine, not even including the custom paint job. This Cannondale, by decent road bike standards, is affordable. Not cheap, not four grand, but affordable.

A view of the Musconetcong valley from the top of Staats Road outside of Bloomsbury:



That's real haze, not a dirty lens. It is also a good representation of how I've been seeing out of my left eye for the past week.

Next to the Homestead General Store in Upper Black Eddy, on the Delaware Canal:

Not as cool as the Flower House in North Creek, but Bob could try to paint it anyway.


On my way home I stopped at Hart's Cyclery to talk to Oscar. We went over the details of Gonzo's components and figured out that I'd only be able to keep about half of them if I got just a new frame, and even then I'd be stuck with a bike that's half old (some parts are from 1997, and others were hand-me-downs of unknown vintage). So we opened the Cannondale catalog and started looking. He suggested selling Gonzo and applying whatever I could get towards the new bike.

Today I brought Gonzo in for Oscar to see. He mulled it over. "This might be pushing it," he said, "but you might be able to get $400 for it." Ouch.

We talked about frames and brands a little more, and he pulled two Cannondales down for me to inspect. On Sunday I'll be back to test-ride two models. I'm fiercely loyal to Hart's Cyclery. Ross and Oscar have been great to work with for the nearly nine years I've been going there.

Anyway, there's one detail I should mention that let me know I was really going to go through with this, even if I wasn't sure when:

On Saturday I sat down and bought from Ebay two of a certain Muppet for the back of what would someday be a new bike. Joining Kermit, Gonzo, and Grover will be...

...Miss Piggy.

It's only fitting.

And it's cheaper than psychotherapy.

And Now for Something Not Quite Completely Different

12 July 2010

We re-carpeted the house last week, which was a big deal, not because the new stuff feels all soft and fuzzy under our feet, but because Jack had to dismantle his library. I can't help him with this; everything is in order. He's decided to rearrange and winnow as well, so the house still looks like we just moved in.

I mention all this in order to explain the dust, and I mention the dust because I've gone and scratched my cornea again.

This time it's the left eye, and it's a doozy: 3.3 mm. It's never a good thing when the attending physician says, over the shoulder of the new intern who is peering through a lens at the fluorescein dye in my eye, "I can see it from here." And I don't even know how it happened.

So we're blaming it on the dust. Now that I've managed to scratch a cornea four times in the past three years, the doctors are thinking my corneal epithelium just doesn't have it together like it should, and that I'm going to be prone to this sort of thing for the rest of my life.

Yippee.

Despite the size of the thing, I'm not cursing like a sailor this time.

I am still in the "Ow ow ow ow" stage, which is preceded first by the "I think there's something in my eye" stage and then the "Tearing like a waterfall" stage. It was so bad last night that each time I entered into REM sleep I jolted awake in pain.

The good folks at Scheie Eye Institute are taking care of me, though. They sent me packing with a tube of antibiotic goo and will peer into my eye every day until the cut is gone.

Tomorrow I hope I'll have entered the "Jell-O" stage. That's what happens after the pain and light sensitivity are gone but the swelling makes it look as if I'm peering at the world through a bowl of milky gelatin. Which, if you think about it, I kind of am. The Jell-O takes about a day or two to go away, and then it's a good week before things are really back to normal.

During the exam today I did get a good look at Fido, who does, these days, look more like an elephant than a Siberian husky. I suppose that's progress.

A Weekend in the Adirondacks

5 July 2010

Jack and I spent the 4th of July weekend in the Adirondacks. Don and Mary Anne invited thirteen Freewheelers to share three six-person condos on top of a hill outside of the village of North Creek.

We hung out, ate, biked, ate, hiked, ate, did other stuff, hung out, and ate. It was chaos. It was like living in a dorm, but with better furniture, better food, no homework, and saner people.

I'm not going to have much time over the next week or so to blog, so instead of going into the details I'm just going to show you the pictures.

Minutes into our bike ride on Friday we screeched to a halt to gawk at a house on Bird Pond Road. We knew we'd have to get Bob out here to do a plein air painting.






I think this barn was on Igerna Road:

Schroon Lake:



At the Adirondack General Store in Adirondack, NY, near Schroon Lake, Marilyn and I pose in one of several apparent fireplaces for sale outside of the store:


Sacked out on the sofa after the ride, I took pictures of the windows of our condo (Unit 10):


On Saturday, Don took us for a short hike up to the top of Balm of Gilead, which overlooks Thirteenth Lake. From left to right (Marilyn took the picture): Nancy, Lenore, Don, Metta, Poppa Jack, Hari, Norene, me with my sweaty hair down, Jack the Moose, and Terry.

Views from Balm of Gilead:


From left to right: Norene, Marilyn, Jack, Metta, Nancy, Lenore, Jack, Terry.


Video of the view:



On the way back down:




After the hike I drove back to the Flower House for more pictures. Minutes after I left, Marilyn, Norene, Lenore and Bob drove over to take pictures. They met the owners and Bob got permission to paint the place. We all want the painting.








After stuffing our faces at the second night of potluck, a few of us took a walk down the hill. This is twilight at Gore Village:

Jack and I went to the Adirondack Museum on Sunday. We were in moose heaven. I've never seen a live moose. This stuffed head reminded me of just how big these critters are.


Here are some views of Blue Mountain Lake from the grounds of the museum:





The exhibit of "rustic furniture" included a grotesque deer hoof-adorned mirror:
Back in the gift shop (which is both the museum's entrance and exit), we pondered the purchase of a rather large stuffed moose, hat not included. Not having a strong cell phone signal, I was unable to ask Dale for advice.

We decided to take it home. Here, Adirondack the Moose poses in front of the museum, and with Jack:

(The black line is a quick editing out of my thumb.)
Adirondack the Moose was a big hit with the condo crowd. Terry M came in and immediately started petting his muzzle. Terry S came in and lent him his hat. Lenore tried on the vest (it was too big) and felt safe sleeping on the couch with Adirondack the Moose to guard her. Bob took a picture of him lying sideways in the car, across my bike, his face peering out of the back window (if he sends it I'll post it).

Back in New Jersey, Adirondack the Moose is at home in the Moose Room:



That's all for now.