Scenes from the Ride for McBride

18 September 2011


I really should plan these things better.  When I posted here that we'd start from Mercer County Park at 6:45 a.m., I really wasn't thinking about how dark it is in early September at 6 a.m.

At 6:15 I stood at the front window, dressed in a used, too-big, red, DeRosa jersey that Joe had handed me down last year ("I can't wear this," I'd whined.  "It's got a heart on it!").  I had one hand on Burnaby and the other around a mug of coffee.  "What do you think?"  I asked the cat.  "I think I should try it."  It was only going to get lighter, after all.  Burnaby would have rathered I stay home with my hand sunk into his fur all day, but I had a ride to lead and a charity event to take part in.

At 6:20 I lit out in the big ring, knowing full well that a) it would take me all or more of the 25 minutes I'd given myself to get to the park's East Picnic Area entrance; and b) that, on a 90-plus-mile ride, one should not start at a sprint.

Mist hung over the fields on Baker's Basin Road but I didn't stop.  I had to, though, at the park entrance on Hughes Drive.

I really should think these things through.  First, we'd had a wet summer.  Then we had Irene.  Less than a week later, bits of Lee dumped more water on us.  Nevertheless, I chose to take the shortcut, the macadam path through the woods to the East Picnic Area.

All was fine and well until the path dipped down by the arching wooden bridge over the Assunpink.  Between me and the bridge, a good hundred feet or so, lay a puddle that extended well to the sides of the path.  Going around wasn't an option.

Fine, I thought.  I'll just wade through it.  I didn't have time to go back onto the road.  So I dismounted and began to walk.  The water was cool around my toes, ankles, calves, um, is that a milepost up there, barely showing above the water?  Right.  This ain't happening.  I turned around, but not before dropping my rear-view mirror into the water.

Two shoes, two socks, and one glove soaked, I sloshed back out of the puddle, shoved the mirror in my pocket, and sprinted back up the path.  I cut across the grass to the road, more than five minutes late already.

As I turned into the park, Ron and Plain Jim were heading towards me.  "I'm sorry," I began, but Ron cut in.

"Did you go through the woods?"

"I tried.  Did you?"

"Yeah.  I turned around."  He got about as far as I did.

While Ron and Plain Jim signed in, I documented more of Lee:

This is a field, not a pond.

 

Despite our late, soggy beginning, we got to Tall Cedars well before the Ride for McBride began.  We'd only planned for about 80 riders, figuring that, with about 40 pre-registered, we'd get that many more this day.  I'm not a good judge of these things, but there seemed to be a lot of cars parked already.

We found Mike B and Theresa, who had planned to go on their own.  We found Cheryl, who was waiting to leave with Ira's group until I told her that he wasn't setting out for another half hour.  We found some more Hill Slugs and other Free Wheelers.  Cheryl talked Mike into riding with her.  Theresa decided to go with us.

When we left the park, we were twenty strong, Cheryl's people and mine and other Free Wheelers mixed in.  More than half of us were wearing red, Joe's favorite color.

When Irene came through, the day after two of the three routes' arrows had been painted, she left us with a handful of closed roads and two bridges out.  We tried not to panic; we let things dry out instead.  By mid-week, only one bridge remained closed.  It was an at-grade stream crossing on Old York Road, blocked only by barrels and concrete barriers.  The road itself was safe, and we could get through.

In the middle of the pack, heading east on 526, I marveled at the number of Free Wheelers who had come out to remember Joe.  A wave of sadness hit me.  Then I thought, "Joe hated riding in big groups."  If he'd agreed to do this at all, he'd have jumped off the front or left on his own, maybe taking a select few of us with him.

Joe didn't like hills either, so, when I put the 25- and 50-mile routes together, I made sure to include Hill Road as a big "fuck you" to the master himself.

It's only fitting, then, that my rear tire started to go soft after the second of the seven hills of Hill Road. I squished my way up four more before the rim hit the road. Everyone had passed me.  Plain Jim circled back to help.  Anyone who rides with me knows I'm allergic to rubber.  If I don't have to touch the stuff I won't.  At home I'll fix a flat and slather my hands with cortisone; on the road, I get help.

Mike B came up from behind.  Chris materialized.  Little Joe and a stranger gathered around.  "Cheryl dropped me," Mike said as he pried the tire from the rim without the aid of a lever.  I don't know how he does that.  It takes me two levers and a bloody knuckle to change a flat.

We found a half-inch slit in the tire, but that wasn't the source of the slow leak.  I patched it with duct tape.  Mike found the offending piece of gravel elsewhere on the tire and pried it out.  I handled the CO2 cartridge and wrestled the wheel back onto the frame.  It wasn't the fastest flat-fix in history, but we didn't take long either.

Chris said, "They didn't wait.  They said they'd meet you at the rest stop."  How sporting of them.  On the other hand, Joe used to do that sometimes too.  If he had a head of steam on, he'd just keep going.

As we rolled into the rest stop, I called out, "I just want to give a hearty 'fuck you' to all those people who ditched me back there when I had a flat!"

Everyone laughed, including riders I'd never before laid eyes upon.  Of course.  Everyone here knew Joe.  Mighty Mike and a few others apologized, but when I emerged from the bathroom, they were all gone.

Mike B had left as well, to finish the ride at his own speed, unhurried, the way he'd wanted to ride all along.

Little Joe got a call from the manager of the recreation park, so we waited for him to relay the closing instructions to the rest stop volunteers.  Now there were just six of us:  Chris, Plain Jim, me, Theresa, Little Joe, and another Chris.

When we turned onto the road leading through Fort Dix, we dropped the hammer.  It's hard not to on that road in any case; now I had vengeance on my mind.  Browns Mills-Cookstown Road has traffic lights, it's flat, it has a wide shoulder, and there's really not much to see but miles and miles of Pinelands forest interrupted every now and then by signs for bivouacs or shooting ranges.

At this pace, I figured, we'd catch up to those who had dropped us not once, but twice now.

Along Mirror Lake in Browns Mills we saw Mike B.  He'd stopped for a snack.  "You all right?"  I asked as I passed by.

"Yeah," he said.  I saw Theresa say something to him, but she didn't stop either.

Still hammering, we turned back up the road we'd come in on.  Little Joe and the other Chris were falling behind. 

Approaching Cookstown, I saw riders ahead.  "That's got to be the rest of them," I said, and kept the pace.  We decided that if we caught them we should blow right by them.

At the next turn we were close behind.  They were only three now:  Cheryl, George, and Newell.  I sped up.

Cheryl looked over.  "Heyyyyy!"  she called out.

"Paybacks are a bitch!"  I hollered and kept on going.  Plain Jim passed me.  I was tired.  "I can't keep this up," I said.  We slowed down, the four of us ahead of Cheryl's group.  Behind us I counted more than three helmets.  Little Joe and the other Chris must have caught up to them.

We only had a few more miles to go.

On Iron Bridge the drizzle started.  As we walked our bikes into the shelter of the picnic pavilion, it was really raining.

Everyone was back not too long after that, and the rain had stopped.

Little Joe was annoyed.  We'd dropped him.  "I thought you were with Cheryl!"  I said.

"I never saw her."

Oh, shit.  What a horrible thing to do, and on this ride especially.  I couldn't apologize enough.

The pavilion was a sea of red Ride for McBride and blue Penn t-shirts.  The McBride family army worked the grill, doling out hamburgers and veggie burgers.  We milled about until Jared, Joe's son, started talking.

He thanked all the riders and the volunteers.  Then he started to talk about his father and halted.  Hold it together, man, I thought.  The pavilion fell silent.  Judy, Joe's widow, came over and, arm in arm, Jared continued.

I don't remember everything he said, but Jared talked about how Joe, a bereavement counselor, always spoke of the strength of community in helping to heal a loss.  Jared also told us that Joe often said, "He who laughs, lasts."

We hung around a while longer, Little Joe and I plotting next year's route.  "We should leave it the same next year and change it after that," he said.  Mike B grumbled that we'd run out of burgers.  Someone said that we'd had a hundred riders.  I thanked Jared for keeping all of us organized.

Mike B wanted some extra miles, so he headed home the traffic-y way on his bike while Theresa drove by herself.

Jim and I went back by ourselves.  I pedaled home through the park, on the road this time, keeping my eye on a threatening sky that never did rain.

When I got home, I sent this to Little Joe:

I, [OLPH], hereby proclaim

that [Little Joe] has

ONE FREE PASS

TO

DROP MY ASS

To be used at Joe’s discretion

at any time.

You can still donate, and get one of these groovy t-shirts designed by Jenna, Joe's daughter, by going to Ride for McBride.