28 May 2011
The Stanton General Store is open again! For real this time. I emailed Vito Marinelli, the owner, so I know it's true.
The store hours aren't posted on the web site, so I asked: Monday-Thursday, 11-9, Friday and Saturday, 11-10, and Sunday 9-7.
11 a.m. seems a bit late on a Saturday for summer bikers, but it is, essentially, a pizza place.
I've gathered, with Cheryl's help, a large handful of Hill Slugs to go with me to check the place out. What I thought would be an easy route around Round Valley Reservoir is turning into a headache, though. I've already been told I must provide a cue sheet for those who want to turn back after Stanton (the trip up to the reservoir adds a dozen miles). Another Slug is worried that we might be too fast (yeah, right). Someone else wants an early start because it's going to be hot.
I end up spending Thursday night in front of the computer, plotting a route from Pennington that will be easy for the shortcut people to jump to the end of, get them back in as close to 50 miles as I can manage, and that will get the rest of us back in less than 70. Good thing I looked. Left to my own devices, we'd have reached 30 miles before Stanton.
Saturday morning has Chris at my door, a pile of dead multiflora rose trunk in his arms. "I'll trade ya this for a tube," he says. I point him to the compost pile. That dead shrub in our yard has been bugging him all season.
We get to Pennington just in time. Seven people are waiting, five of whom have decided to take the short way out. It's tradition at this point: as I hand her the map she'll need, I have to accuse Cheryl of stealing my ride. "I knew it!" she says, but she's smiling. I'm disappointed that it'll only be me, Chris, and Jeff heading to the reservoir. Some of the others have plans; some don't have enough miles under them to attempt 70 in the hills; and Mike B is just feeling insecure after recovering from a hematoma the size of a small car on his thigh.
I think we're going to get to Stanton before the store opens. At the bottom of Rileyville I float the idea of adding a loop to Cider Mill.
"NO EXTRA MILES!" Cheryl orders, and that's that.
Mike B changes his mind. "Yaaaaaaay!" I knew he'd come around. There's no way he can go that far and not take a peek at the reservoir.
Now we're pretty close to Stanton and it's only just a little after 10:00. Tom and I conspire to take a slightly longer, but shadier and less steep, route from 523 to the store. We get there at 10:40. Nobody wants to wait.
I push on the door. It's open. At the far end of the room a young man is counting money. He lets me in. "Are you Vito?"
"I'm his business partner," he says. I introduce myself and ask if I can fill my water bottle.
"Sure," he says. "We had a late night last night. Pardon the mess," which is a handful of unwashed wine glasses by the sink.
I look around. He's got coffee, drinks, bags of chips, candy, Power Bars, and Clif bars. There's a deli counter, empty now, save for a lone pickle.
In the back of my mind, I mourn the absence of the monstrous muffins that brought us here in the first place all those years ago.
The Stanton General Store closed more than two years ago. It's been that long since I've climbed up to the reservoir from this direction. I used to be able to get a peek at the water through the trees before reaching the top of the hill, but not anymore. We stop at the boat launch for water and bathrooms. The reservoir is busy with people boating and fishing.
The descent is in the shade of Old Mountain Road. Since we're heading towards the diner at Whitehouse Station, we turn on the railroad bridge to get closer in. Chris is ahead of me, followed closely by Jeff. We ride around a bend.
That's when Jeff, looking at a house or something, taps Chris' rear wheel. Nobody goes down, but Chris' rear derailleur is now firmly embedded in the spokes of his back wheel. Chris, who can fix anything on the fly, can't do a thing about this one, especially because none of us -- not even a passing biker -- has brought a chain tool.
I pull out my phone and search for the nearest bike shop. "Garden State Bicycles is a mile away."
Chris says, "I'll start walking."
Jeff is alternating between "Shit" and "I'm sorry."
I call the shop to make sure they're open. They are, but there's nobody there who can come fetch Chris. So I figure out how best to get out to Route 22. By the time I put my phone away, Chris is a quarter mile down the road.
We catch up. Mike stays with him while Jeff and I ride ahead to make sure we can find the right turns. "This is longer than a mile," he says. Much longer. At the turn we wait. Mike comes riding up. "A cop came by. He's taking Chris to Garden State Bicycle?"
"That's the place."
We pass a turtle in the road. Mike and Jeff stop to carry it into the woods.
By the time we get to the bike shop, Chris is somewhere in the back with the wounded victim. The store is loaded with customers. We wait outside. Jeff sits down on the edge of a planter. I join him.
"This is a clusterfuck," he sighs.
"No, it's not. Nobody got hurt." With three Free Wheelers down this past month, I'm considering today to be a good day. We go back in and share equipment failure stories with one of the guys behind the counter.
Chris comes out with his bike, which is now a single speed. Without a derailleur to pick up the slack, he can't shift gears. The chain is fixed at 32-16, and that's what he's going to have to use to get over every hill between here and home. At least he can still coast.
Jeff pays for the repair.
We're already ribbing Jeff for his little mistake. We pull out of the parking lot, heading down Route 22 again, towards Whitehouse Station. We're not far off the cue sheet, maybe a mile or two.
But we don't get that far. In my rear view mirror I see that Chris and Jeff have stopped. Mike and I turn around.
Chris' chain, broken and tangled, dangles from his hand.
We're not waiting as long this time. Chris, Mike, and I have more than 40 miles under us now. It's time to eat.
It's noon and Jerry's Brooklyn Grill is crowded. Chris pulls out his bike tools and eyes Jeff's rear wheel. "I'm thinking sabotage," he cackles. "Hey, Jeff, which screw should I turn on your derailleur?" He pats Jeff on the back as they go inside.
"Take your time with that sandwich, Jeff."
"Hey, Jeff! Maybe you should ride Chris' bike home."
"Hey, Jeff. You realize you're gonna have to take this for months, right?"
"It's okay. I have big shoulders. Big shoulders, small brain."
We're taking a different route home, one with hills that Chris'll have a shot at getting over without walking.
Leaving Whitehouse Station and going through Readington is mostly flat and easy. The hills begin again on Old York Road. Stuck in a hard gear, Chris pulls ahead of us and tackles one little rise after another as if none was there.
"Amazing," Jeff says.
"Best quads in the club," I tell him.
Cider Mill is a downhill rest, but ahead looms the Sourland Mountain. First, though, we have to get over the double-humper on (Bad)Manners Road between Welisewitz and Wertsville. Chris walks the second half of the second hump, but somehow he still manages to get to the end of the road seconds after Jeff and I do, leaving Jeff and me barely enough time to decide behind Chris' back which way up the mountain would be easier for him.
"Lindbergh or sideways?" I ask him.
"Whatever's faster."
"Lindbergh. It's more direct and it's in the shade."
Jeff shoots me a look that tells me his life has just ended and that mine is in danger. Up we go, Chris first.
About a third of the way up, Chris starts to tack, riding in a sine curve from one side of the road to the other. I time my ascent past him so that we don't crash.
At the top, Mike says, "He walked his bike and still passed me."
"Best quads in the club."
We leave Jeff north of Pennington, just past his house. He's beat. "I'll get a ride to the Y and get my car later," he says.
Mike takes us down Federal City to shave off a few miles. Chris and I get back to my house at 3:30. I have an hour to inhale some food, shower, and do my PT before driving down to Philly for my dad's 80th birthday (Yeah, Dad, I just told the world. Phhhhbbbbbttttt!). But first I have to give Chris something to drink before he passes out. He's looking at the bare spot along the neighbor's fence where the multiflora rose met its end this morning.
"You want your tube back?"
"Naah. Keep it."
*****
30 May 2011
I found out from Tom today that the 55-milers didn't stick to my cue sheet either. They pretty much went the same way we did from Old York Road.
Jeff emailed me the elevation he recorded from the trip. It's the most we've climbed this season -- 4160 feet in the 67 miles he was with us.
Before we started off on today's ride, I told Jeff to pay attention to his front wheel. "No," Chris said. "Pay attention to my rear wheel." We were at Mercer County Park to do our traditional Mutiny Ride, in which we meet everyone doing the All-Paces holiday rides and then go do our own thing to avoid the crowds. Cheryl, Mike, and a few others didn't want to go as far as Tom had planned, so they split off and did their own thing. "A recursive mutiny!" Plain Jim said when I explained everything to him after all the rides were over.
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