Re-Post: Hill Slugs Ride to Cory's Ride, 2 June 2012

31 May 2012

UPDATE:  I've heard from a few people.  Some will be out of town.  Others don't want to start so early.  And y'know, I don't want to get up that early either.  So here's what we'll do:  we'll meet at Tall Cedars for a 7:30 a.m. start.  Those who want to do extra miles can join me for another loop of whatever distance we feel like doing after the first 50 miles are done.  Right.  Sleep in and I'll see you all on Saturday.

30 May 2012

Saturday is Cory's Ride. If a group of Free Wheelers does the ride, the Free Wheeler club will kick in $100 towards the charity.

The 50 mile route leaves  from Tall Cedars, but if you want 12 extra miles twice, meet me at the east entrance of Mercer County Park (on Edinburgh Road) at 6:30 a.m.  Leave a comment here or email my gmail account at perpetualheadwinds if you want the extra miles.

We'll get to Tall Cedars before 7:30 a.m., gather the rest of the Hill Slugs, and set out a bit after 7:30 a.m.  Some of us still have to register ($35).

As of today the weather forecast looks good.  Check in again on Friday.  I'll post an update if there are any changes.

Helmet Cam!

Pretty Brook Road, westbound

28 May 2012

I got a fun little birthday present:  a helmet-mounted video camera.

Let's leave aside for the moment that I possess no video editing  just upgraded QuickTime and have very little idea of how to use the software; that the camera was mushing down on my helmet, which mushed down on my sunglasses, which wasn't very comfortable; and that I have to exit Blogger each time I want to upload another video.  These things can be worked out.

Today, while the rest of you were at the Memorial Day All-Paces ride, I met Sean where he lives and gave him a private tour of back roads in the Sourlands and beyond.  He promised me coffee, and I promised him alpacas.  Because it was so early in the morning (I left my house around 7:40 a.m.) and because it was a holiday, I felt safe riding to where he and Dale live, in Princeton Junction.  I'd never attempt this route on a regular weekend day, but this morning both Quakerbridge Road (from Lawrence Station) and Clarksville were almost completely empty.

I carried Miss Piggy up two flights of stairs to their apartment.  MacyRuth greeted me with barking, and Sean greeted me with caffeine.

Today was going to be hot enough and humid enough to call for an early start.  It was a wise move.  Sean isn't used to our weather yet.  I warned him that this is just the beginning.

So, anyway, about the helmet cam:

Mostly I recorded descents.  Here's the one from Carter Road into Hopewell.  It looks faster than it felt.  They all do.  I think the playback is faster than the recording.  These videos look like I was going 50 mph or something, and I most certainly wasn't!

Carter Road northbound, north of Cherry Valley

I recorded the descent on Lindbergh, from Ridge to Peacock's, but Blogger crashes when I try to upload the entire thing.  I've split it into pieces (thus demonstrating all I know about how to use QuickTime, how much Blogger can handle at once, and that I should just give up and create a YouTube account).

Lindbergh descent from Ridge Road, part 1

Lindbergh descent from Ridge Road, part 2

Lindbergh descent from Ridge Road, part 3

Lindbergh descent from Ridge Road, part 4

At Peacock's we encountered a group of bikers from the Central Bucks club.  They didn't know that Peacock's was closed.  I'd checked into that ahead of time and had planned our route so that we'd stop at the scenic and luxurious Dunkin Donuts on Old York at Route 202.

But between us and a break were the alpacas I'd promised Sean.  Back in March, there were aplacas aplenty at the top of Manners Road.  Today there were none.  Sean was left to photograph a 2-dimensional statue of one in the driveway.

I attempted a panoramic video of the view.  It came out looking as if I'd done it from inside of a fishbowl.

Our rest stop was far from scenic, but it was well air-conditioned.  Some of the Central Bucks bikers showed up eventually.  

I refilled my water bottles in the bathroom sink, as I usually do at rest stops.  Only once before have I had to dump water from my bottles.  This stuff tasted salty.  We decided we'd stop at Boro Bean in Hopewell to do the dump and refill.

To get back over the Sourland Mountain we took part of my standard sideways route, in reverse, so that we'd be halfway up the northern side and Sean could see the Cokesbury ridge in the distance.  To get over, I chose Runyon Mill.  I was hoping it would be hot enough for tar bubbles to form on the oil-and-chip surface.  It would sound like riding over bubble wrap.  I guess the road wasn't hot enough; it didn't happen.

I recorded that last bit of Runyon Mill, the part in the woods that gets steep.  Here's 45 seconds of it.  You can hear an airplane overhead and there were birds in the woods, but you can't hear me breathing.  Ha!  Now I know the playback is sped up.  I only wish I could climb as fast as this video makes me out to be.  Imagine this at, say, one quarter the speed; that'd be more like it, or more how it felt, anyway.

Runyon Mill ascent

We turned onto Mountain Road.  I switched the camera on and looked up to capture the way the trees look like Gothic arches in a cathedral.  Just then, Sean started telling me a story.  Turn the volume up.

The Cathedral, Mountain Road

Boro Bean had a giant jug of water on the window sill.  There were bikers sitting outside.  We talked to Aaron for a few minutes.  I haven't seen him in ages; he's too fast for the Hill Slugs.

We took Province Line across 518 to Drake's Corner, flew down the Great Road, and snaked through the side streets of Princeton to get back to Alexander.  Sean tried to get me to stop and hang out with him and Dale, but I knew that if I got off my bike and climbed the two flights of stairs to their apartment I'd never get back on the bike to ride home.  I figured I'd have to fight traffic the rest of the way home, but the roads were uncommonly quiet, even for a holiday like this one.  I'd been aiming for a metric; I got 60.  Close enough for jazz.

Hill Slugs Ride to Cory's Ride, 2 June 2012

26 May 2012

Next Saturday is Cory's Ride. If a group of Free Wheelers does the ride, the Free Wheeler club will kick in $100 towards the charity.

The 50 mile route leaves  from Tall Cedars, but if you want 12 extra miles twice, meet me at the east entrance of Mercer County Park (on Edinburgh Road) at 7:00 a.m.  We'll get to Tall Cedars before 8:00 a.m., gather the rest of the Hill Slugs, and set out a bit after 8:00 a.m.  Some of us still have to register ($35).

Check in here a few days before the ride for last-minute changes (we might leave a little earlier from the park, the weather might be iffy, stuff like that).

PNI at GFS

24 May 2012

The lab I work in is part of the Princeton Neuroscience Institute.  Yesterday was the institute's quasi-annual retreat, the first I'd been to.  It was held at the conference center at the Grounds for Sculpture in Hamilton.  It was all science, all day long, but when we had chances to wander around, we took them.

I've posted pictures of some of the sculptures on this blog before.  Looking back, some of them were better than the ones I took yesterday, despite their pre-smartphone fuzziness.

This is the pond and waterfall near the restaurant, Rat's:

I wasn't paying much attention to where we were.  The fun of the place is in the wandering.

There are peacocks all over.  Some were hanging out by the windows of the conference center, hopping onto the outdoor tables and calling (they sound like cats).  Others were by the indoor exhibit hall.

I went wandering a second time with a lab manager from upstairs.  We were deep in conversation when we saw the albino:

The third time I was back with my lab-mates.

I didn't think this one was going to come out well, and it didn't.  It's a sculpture of a painter who is painting the sculptures by the lake.  To keep the scene matching the painting, the flowering plants by the water are sculptures too.

My favorite sculptures in the park are twelve whimsical creatures by Dana Stewart.

This reminds me of a much more orderly version of the Hall of Mirrors.

A stand of bamboo hides a rabbit.

In the same building that holds the conference center was an exhibit of work by Ming Fay.

In the evening, while the retreat was winding down, I took pictures of the pond outside of the conference center.

At home, while Jack was telling me about his day, I took pictures of the roses that are growing over our neighbor's fence, into our yard.

This one's ours.  It's not so pink in real life.

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc Saturday: Birthday Ride

16 May 2012

I and a bunch of my friends have birthdays in May, so I decided to have a party for all of them.

Saturday's ride will leave from my house at 9 a.m.  I'll have bagels, spreads, bananas, and coffee for everyone before the ride.

We'll do an easy 50 miles on mostly flat roads at an honest B pace.  Then we'll come back to my house for a cookout.     UPDATE: I've shortened the route to 43-ish miles so that we'll get back closer to noon.

Jim just dropped off a cooler full of meat.  I've already baked cookies.  Dale is bringing veggies.  Jack and I plan a big shopping trip tomorrow.

Our yard is halfway through a massive makeover.  The deck is being eaten by carpenter bees.  The house needs a bath and a fresh coat of paint.  But we can ignore all that and stuff our faces.  For directions to my house, contact me through gmail at perpetualheadwinds.  My phone number is in the ride book.

All Ride Long

The floor of Cocoluxe, Gladstone, NJ

UPDATE #1:  For two more takes on the same adventure, read what Jim and Tom have to say.

UPDATE #2:  I brought the chocolate mouse into work and three of us ate it.  Now I need to come up with a less sadistic bike route to Gladstone so I can get more. Also, I seem to have conflated two hills.  The switchback was on Old Army road, much earlier in the ride than I make it out to be in the story below.  The agony still holds, however.

12 May 2012

Jim is working out his pre-ride jitters by singing in circles around the parking lot.  I'm wondering how much more of my coffee I should drink.  Chris has a wry smile on; he knows what we're in for.  Ron is quiet.  John and Jane pull in.

It's good to do one nothing-but-big-hills ride early in the season.  It makes everything else after that seem easy.  Tom and Chris have brought us up here because Chris has insisted that Tom will never know what real hills are like unless he crosses over to the north side of Route 78.

We're well north of Route 78 now.  We're at the top of the road that winds through Jockey Hollow in the Morristown National Historical Park.  Tom gathers us around and, one more time, tells us that even he doesn't really know what this 50-mile, 5000-foot elevation gain ride is going to be like.  He says we can hate him for it, though.  

I'm remembering what Chris said about it at the Spring Fling:  "It's like my El Camino ride, but without the flat parts."   "El Camino del Diablo" used to show up in the ride book once or twice each year, back before I even had mountain bike gearing, let alone a triple.   I never considered it, except for maybe someday.  Tom calls this one "El Capitan."  I have Miss Piggy.  I'm ready.

We push off and it's nothing but hills.  It's just little ones at first, then a big one about five miles in.  We're under trees and the road winds around.  We get spread out.  I know it's cheating, but I have to stop for a picture.

Jane comes by just after the shutter closes on the second shot.

I catch up to her and we the situation.  "It looks like Lindbergh,"  I say, "up at the top, where there's that little 'whoops' around the corner."  I'm still in my middle ring in front, but I've bottomed out to the 34 in back.  Jane is somehow pushing along with only 26 in the back.  If that's all I'd had, I'd've stayed home.  Here we are, barely started, and I've already gone anaerobic.  When I stop at the top I have to put my hands over my head.  Only when my heart rate gets to around 180 bpm do I feel like barfing.  It only lasts half a minute, though.

After that I do what Tom has already done:  I switch into my granny gear.  "I don't know what's coming," Tom says.  "Much better," I tell him when we reach the next hill.  I stay in my granny during the descents.  I don't know what's around the corner.

Three of us work at Princeton University.  Three of us have mountain bike gearing.  Three of us have triples.  I'm the only one that's in all three groups.

Punchiness usually hits me towards the end of a ride.  This time I've started early.  As we reach the top of another hill, less than ten miles in, while Jim is pulling up around me, I hear myself sing to him, in a childlike voice, to the tune of "The Wheels on the Bus," which I never even sang as  kid,

The wheels and the foots go 'round and 'round

He laughs.  Seconds later, he adds, 

The mouth and the lips go "Fuck you, Tom

Fuck you, Tom

Fuck you, Tom"

The mouth and the lips go "Fuck you, Tom"

All day long.

Well, now we have something, don't we?  "Hey, Tom!  We're singing about you."  He's not surprised.

I catch the end of a discussion in which Chris says he'll charge $50 to carry anything in his handlebar bag.  John suggests a full set of China.  I chip in that I feel privileged:  "He carried my chocolate bunnies for free.  Then again, he got to keep the extras."

I wonder why we haven't seen any other bikers.  There was that group at the entrance to the park when I drove in, but that's all I've seen.  This is supposed to be prime territory.  Tom says, "They know where the good roads are."

At the top of another hill we almost have a view.  Tom pulls out his camera and I get mine.  "It's gonna come out flat," I lament, but we do our best.

At the end we turn right.  Jane points back and says, "That's where we were, up there!"

We swoop past what looks like a lake at first.  But there's a chain-link fence around it.  It's a reservoir.  The only one I've seen and heard of by name up north is the Wanaque, but there are something like twenty up here.  The building looks sort of the same.  I have no idea where we are, though.

[It's the Clyde Potts Reservoir, which drains into the Whippany River.]

Our first rest stop is in Gladstone.  Tom slows to investigate a bakery.  I move on just past the block of stores so that I can take pictures of the train station.  I'm not sure why I'm doing it other than to remind myself later of where I was.

But then I see that this is the end of the Gladstone rail line, and that's kinda cool, I guess.

I hear Tom coming up behind me.   "Closed," he's saying.  Chris says something about the "other Main Street," and leads us to a busier section of town.  We stop in front of Cocoluxe, where a few bikers are already hanging out.  This must be the Sergeantsville of Morris County.

Jim comes up to me as I put my cleat covers on, singing about what happened a couple of blocks away:

The bak'ry sign says "We are closed

We are closed

We are closed"

The bak'ry sign says "We are closed

All day long."

I get iced coffee, a small muffin, and a chocolate mouse to bring home later.

"Can you wrap it up?  I have to carry it."  The mouse arrives in a little pink box, too cute to remove, too big for my pockets.  I beg Chris to carry it.  "It's really light," I tell him, tossing it up and down.  He agrees without hesitation.

We're sitting next door to a dealer selling five red Porches.

Jim sings,

Tom and his friends go up the hill

Up the hill

Up the hill

Tom and his friends go up the hill

Far too long.

I look down at my coffee.  "I have so much caffeine in my system right now."  I put the muffin stump on the table and work on my Cliff bar instead.  It's a better thing to eat.  I don't know what's coming.

At the end of Mosle Road we find an old schoolhouse.  Jane is enamored with the weather vane.

24 miles in, Jane is happy that we've covered 29 miles.  This causes some confusion until she figures out that she's been reading the elevation gain.  Two thousand nine hundred and change halfway through the ride.  Well, that's heartening, we decide.  We've done three fifths of our climbing.

By now I'm not surprised when I find myself bottoming out at 24-32 at 4. 5 mph.  There's a great view on our right, but I can only point.  I'm not stopping this time.

When we gather to re-group, it's next to a house that's typical up here.

Later we pass two that are bordered by wrought-iron fences. Farther on I see a for sale sign that advertises 38 acres.  I wonder if a decimal point is missing.

We stop again in Basking Ridge or Bernards or both or something.  It's my turn again.

The hills on this route go on and on

On and on

On and on

The hills on this route go on and on

All ride long.

Jim says, "I'm ruined.  I'm ruined!"

As we get ready to take off, Jane checks her GPS and is astonished at her average.  "Are you sure that's not the average grade?"

She calls John over to double-check.  No, it's her average.  I wouldn't be at all surprised if our average speed and average grade were the same.  I wouldn't be surprised if our average speed were less than the average grade.

We're about to get the only break of the day:  a few miles of flat roads as we pass through the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge.  I'm psyched about that.  "I want to get pictures," I tell him.

"There's nothing to see," he says.  "There's this one bridge with a view.  It's the same picture in all the books.  The bridge, the swamp, and a great blue heron."  Good enough for me.

We're at 37 miles.  I switch into my middle ring.  Behind me, Jane sings,

The cars on the road go "Honk! Honk! Honk!

Off the road

You damn bikes"

The cars on the road go "Honk! Honk! Honk!"

All ride long.

We've been pretty lucky, really, with the honking.  I can remember only one for the day so far.

"I have another one," she says.  Together we smooth it out:

The gal in the back goes "Oh my god

Oh my god

Oh my god"

The gal in the back goes "Oh my god

No more gears!"

Jim flies past me, singing,

Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight

Come out tonight

Come out tonight

I've got Dr. John in my head, singing his studio version of Junco Partner:

Well, give me whiskey, when I get a little frisky.

Cause it's my good drink, when I get a little dry.

Give me tobacco, when I get a little sickly

But give me heaven before I die.

[The version I know is from "Dr. John's Gumbo," with a full band, Nawlins drums, and horn section.  But you can watch him solo, with slightly different lyrics, here.  Go watch it.  If I'd known piano could sound like this back when I was taking lessons as a kid, I might not have quit so soon.]

Gradually the houses fade out and woods fade in.  Sometimes there's marsh on either side of us, sometimes it's houses.  The only way I can tell what's part of the refuge and what's not is by the little goose signs posted every so often.

I wonder about the gun sign.  Safe guns only?

Swamp iris!  Blue flag! I turn around so I can get pictures.  

We get to the bridge with the view just as a great blue heron is taking off.  

I used to have to know all these plants.  Arrow arum is coming up (bottom right), and a few water lilies are about to bloom.

Jane wonders what the bridge is in the distance.  Tom says it's a trail.  He asks me, "You done?"

"Not yet.  One more."  I cross the road and take two.

We're closing in on 50 miles.  There's only one way to go.  I switch back into my granny.

"Right turn!"  It's a sharp turn and a sharp grade.  I don't have much left for it.

Me:  Fuck you, Tom! Fuck you, Tom!
Jane:  Oh my god!
Me:  Fuck you, Tom!
Jane:  No more gears!


John, always in front, never looking tired, finds the switchback first.  He waves down at us.

It's my turn for "Oh my god!" as I approach it.  But it's not bad.  It's not bad at all.  I look over and holler, "It's all right!  It's all right!"

But then it isn't.  It's far from all right.  It's a fucking asphalt wall.  I'm out of gears and out of breath.  I don't dare stand.  I find a position that keeps my front wheel on the ground.  I wonder if I should tack.  No.  That'll just take longer.  I should stop.  But then I won't be able to clip in again.  It looks like it's leveling out up there.  OK.  No, there's more.  I should stop.  But then I won't be able to clip in again.  It looks like it's leveling out up there.  I've been anaerobic for too long.  Just a little more.  John's stopped.  That's the top.  Just a little more.

One by one we get there, beat, trashed, ruined.  Jane, in keeping herself entertained and focused, has come up with another verse as she watched her GPS up the hill:

The people on the ride go "Fuck you, Tom!"

"We've got that already."

"What's this climb

At forty-nine?

Twenty-one percent

Your ass is mine

All day long!"

Amen to that.

Tom says, "Chris made me do it."  We stand at the top for a few minutes, fuming.  "Ready to go?"

Chris says, "Wait.  One more thing.  Put your hand out, Laura."

"Huh?"

He shakes it and pats me on the back.  "Congratulations.  You can no longer complain about hills.  You have a new motto:  I may be a Hill Slug, but I'm not afraid of hills.  Fear me, hills."

"I have one:  Fuck you, Chris."  But I slap him on the shoulder.  "Thanks."

We turn right, onto the Jockey Hollow park road.  "It's straight in from here," Tom tells us.  Yeah, straight up.  Jane and I grumble every time the road rises even a little.

I'm so wasted that, when I see the parking lot, I find myself riding straight over a sidewalk and off the curb to get to my car faster.

We call out our averages, a sick joke.  One of us is in the 8's.  Another is in the high 12's.  That's how slow we were going and how steep the hills were.  If we take John and Jim out of the equation (they're kites, after all), it shakes out something like this:  those of us with mountain bike cassettes (Tom, Ron, and I) had higher averages than those with flat-land gears in the back (how does Jane do it?) or triples in the front (Chris).

John emerges with a cooler of beer.

I plop down onto the grass, pushing my disc fluid back where it belongs.  Jane collapses on her back, trying to put her shoulders back where they belonged.  Tom, John, and Ron mill about.

Jim takes off.  Ron leaves.  Tom and Chris head home.  John and Jane leave, with me behind them.  The three of us are looking for somewhere to eat, outside.  The one place they'd seen on the way in is closed.  We're directed to another one a few miles away.  It doesn't look promising.  "It looks like a mausoleum," John says.  We walk away.  "We're just gonna go home," he says.  "Yeah, me too."  But first I'm going back to the little farm market up the road.  Dale's birthday was yesterday and I promised her a plant.

I pick out a huge, hanging fuchsia.  I have to pay inside, where I do my best to pass the frosted flower-shaped cookies and go for an apple instead.  I come out with both, and fizzy water.

In the car, on the highway, I take monster chomps from the apple.  This is good.  I can stay away from the cookies and have some real food when I get home.

Or not.  Caught in a line of traffic behind an eighteen-wheeler, at a red light, in Hillsborough, I tear open the wrapper on a tulip and inhale half of it.  By the next red light, the whole thing is gone.

I get home just in time to drop my stuff and take Jack to the train station for one in a series of Rutgers graduation duties. I text Dale that I have a plant for her, and she invites me to dinner with her, Sean, and her visiting dad and brother.

Sean has been poking around the Sourland Mountain again. We play with maps on my phone.  He wants to know if I'm going to ride tomorrow.

"Nuh uh!  My legs are tired.  My bike is tired!"

Yeah, I suffered today.  But I suffered with six other people and we had fun.