Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, 1 September

Fiddler's Elbow as Google Earth sees it (h/t Blake)

30 August 2012

Fiddler's Elbow?

Tom wants to try it, and I'm just dumb enough to go along with him.

Here is the route that Tom has planned.  See that craggy bit at mile 30?  Go to the "map" menu on the upper right corner of the page.  Check the "terrain" box.  Now zoom in on mile 30.

Yeah, that's pretty much what I'm thinking, too.

Meet in the parking lot by the Delaware River, on Railroad Avenue, in Milford, NJ, for an 8:30 a.m. start.

For the record, when I showed the above picture to one of my colleagues, she said, "You guys are crazy."  Yep.

If I Can Paint Road Arrows...

26 August 2012

I won't rehash today's momentarily worrisome details of John W's unfortunate dietary addition. Jim did a pretty good job of that. I will add, however, that it is unnerving to hear a human sound like a cat coughing up a hairball.

John W is just about finished with what turned into a huge renovation project to the outside of our house.  I'll have many pictures of that soon.  Meanwhile, I'll show you what I did after today's ride.  It's sort of related.

My paternal grandparents had a porch, and on it were three pieces of metal furniture:  two chairs and a cart.  They were white and always impeccably clean.  I don't remember the timeline, but I ended up with them on the back porch.

Shortly after we moved in, during a visit from my parents, my father lamented the state of the furniture.  The paint was peeling and the metal was starting to rust.  He offered to take them home and re-paint them.  I said no, which offended him.  I said I'd do it myself.

That was probably something over ten years ago.  During this summer's renovations, the two chairs lived outside.  Exposed to the elements, there was now almost as much rust as there was paint.  The cart, still inside, had fared better.

Jack wanted just to get rid of all three.  I said no.  Having just finished spray-painting road arrows for the Ride for McBride, I figured I'd be able to handle spray-painting some furniture.  Yesterday I came home with a bag full of RustOleum.

Several miles before John swallowed his insect, I told him of my plans.  He suggested a wire brush to remove the flaking paint.  I'd been planning to use a scraper.  On my way home from the ride (after stopping at Mendoker's  for some well-dressed sugar from a family-run bakery), I picked up some wire brushes.

I set up shop inside the porch, out of range of the hordes of tiger mosquitoes occupying our back yard.  I put on nitrile gloves to keep myself from scraping my fingers to shreds, and sunglasses to keep myself from scraping my corneas to shreds.  I laid down a drop cloth to collect the flakes.

This was the worst of the two chairs:

A little WD40 in the cart's wheels made a huge difference.

I thought three cans of primer would be enough.  It was, barely.  Here's everything, primed.

Note to self:  don't kneel on a spray-painted drop cloth.  It turns the shins gray.

Four cans of metallic black paint left me with enough to do touch-ups later.

It's a good thing I sort of like the smell of toluene and xylene.  Mixed with the thick layer of insect repellent I was wearing, it made for an interesting assault on my liver. 

Acetone smells good, too.  I needed that to get the paint off my legs and arms.

Not bad for an amateur, huh?  Just don't look too closely when you see these things in person.

Staying Local

 

A cropped view of our mountain from Cider Mill

25 August 2012  

I needed a break from the epic rides I've been doing lately.  I stayed local today by following Cheryl, Blake, Plain Jim, and a handful of women I didn't know up into the Sourlands.  

When you put a Spinning instructor in charge of leading rides, you might find yourself facing the toughest climbs at the end of the ride.  She warned us, though.  A lot of us were taking it easy in the first half.

Today's weather was relatively cool for August -- somewhere in the low 80s -- but the humidity was high.  This made for a sticky ride but for an interesting, hazy view of the Sourland Mountain from Cider Mill Road.

The telephoto shot is almost in focus.

The return trip involved climbing Zion to Long Hill, then Lindbergh/Province Line across 518 to the hard rollers.  This is where my meager talent as an endurance rider gives me a slight advantage.  I spent the ride in the middle of the pack, but I wasn't spent when the hills were behind us.

Three of us peeled off onto Old Mill.  The road has been closed for ages, but, as things go around here, there'd never been any work on the bridge slated for repair.  Until recently, apparently. 

Still, this barely counts.  We only had to walk because there was too much gravel strewn into the hard-packed mud.

We passed one side of the Pole Farm (Mercer County Park Northwest).  Click on the picture to enlarge it and you'll see the one remaining pole to the left of the barn.  (Follow this link for an explanation of the name, or this link for a less detailed web version.)

Although I've never met one of the two I rode home with, and only recognized the other when she reminded me that we're often in Spinning class together, we all live within less than a mile of each other.  The one I've never met has even been commuting by bike every day recently to the same building I work in.  We were pretty close to her street when she told me this.  I told her that I don't haul my commuter bike to campus every day because I want to save something for the weekends.  I only had time to look at her bike and not recognize it as one of the handful of high-enders chained up in the breezeway.  When she told me she takes her bike up to her lab, I said, "Cheater!"  I never did get the chance to find out when she leaves for work.  I'll have to find her in the campus directory.  Safety in numbers and all that, provided that my speed on a fully-loaded Gonzo is anything she'd be willing to put up with.

One more thing:  Jim, I cropped one of last week's canoe pictures.  Better?

We Didn't Write Any Songs About Tom This Time

22 August 2012


"Tom!"  Dave C shouted out.  "How often do you get called a lying bastard?"

"A lot."

We'd just climbed out of Perkasie on a 20% grade from a rolling stop.  "I need to invest in a triple," Blake had said as he'd passed me, standing.  The road was short, steep, narrow, and with a pothole I did my best to swerve around while pushing my weight (it's good for something) forward in order to keep my front wheel on the pavement.  Behind me, Jack H had said, "Whoa!" as I'd veered left.  At the same time, it seemed, Tom had gone off to the right and stopped.  Jim and Dave were behind us somewhere out of my rear view mirror's sight.

To be fair, Tom had warned us.  And to be even fairer, he and I had been on this road last year, in the other direction, grabbing our brakes.  I sort of knew what to expect.

Tom kicks my ass on every hill.  We have the same bike, the same setup, and we're just about the same age.  He'd already handed me my ass on today's first hill, a climb that had me bottomed out on my gears less than a mile from the parking lot.  So when I got to the top before him this time, I knew it was an event never to be repeated. Not that we're competing.  We're totally not competing.  There's no point.  He kicks my ass every time.  Except this one.

Anyway, Tom turned out not to be quite the lying bastard we thought he was going to be.  The terrain leveled off after that, relatively speaking.

Good thing, too, because this was one of those mornings when I just wasn't feeling it.  I hadn't had enough sleep.  Instead of my usual pre-ride brew, I'd used some inferior beans given to me as leftovers from someone who doesn't drink coffee.  It tasted so bad that I didn't even finish what I had.  If the caffeine was doing anything, I didn't know about it.  To add to the insult, the coffee I got at the rest stop wound up being flavored (bleah!) and I didn't get more than a few sips of that swill down.

Blake and I were on the lookout for good road names.  We passed a sign announcing a closure at the intersection of Sheep Hole Road.  

I wasn't the only one feeling draggy.  Not that Jim didn't charge to the front on more than a few inclines.

This year's route was partly last year's backwards and partly new roads.  It wouldn't be a Tom ride if we didn't encounter a bridge out.  This one hardly registers, though, because we didn't even have to dismount to get across.

When we got to Lake Nockamixon we headed to the marina.

There, a woman standing by us near the docks gave us a history of the lake.  From what I understood her to say, once the creek was dammed, one hurricane did what the engineers had figured it would take months to do, and the lake was born.  She pointed out where roads once were, told us about a small dam breech that tipped the boats over, and was derailed when Dave said, "I'm guessing Upper Tiddly on the Winks" (or not quite, but you get the idea). 

She smiled.  "Close," she said.  "Lower Squatting" (or something like that).

"I thought I detected northern," he replied, and then it was her turn to guess where he was from.  She didn't do as well as he had done.

As we had done last year, we stopped at the dam on the Tohickon.  "Get some pictures," Jim commanded.  "So I can steal them."

Tom took us on a little loop.  "There's a marker on Dustin's map.  148.  I don't know what it is but we're about to find out.  I think it's supposed to be a waterfall."

"That's it?"  Dave asked, indignant.  "This is what you took us out of the way for?"

We went on Elephant Road again, by the church that I took pictures of last time.  Soon after we wound up on Curly Hill Road, which was not much of a hill, and straight.

Our last couple of miles were a slow cool-down along the path that surrounds Lake Galena in Peace Valley Park.

Because I missed getting a dock picture last week:

At the end of the ride, I asked Tom to sign his new book.  While he was doing that I checked my phone for messages.  Cheryl had called.  I had a feeling I knew what it was about.  I waited until everyone had gone before I called her back.

R.I.P. Frank Angelucci

 19 August 2012

In his own words, from the April 2011 Freewheel:

I didn’t exercise much in the 70’s and 80’s, for I was working hard at my business as a mason. I was then 225 lbs & smoking a pack + a half of cigarettes a day. Then after moving to my new home in Chesterfield I decided to quit the cigarettes & started thinking of my health. So I started to exercise which helped me to quit smoking & lose weight. The Huffy I bought didn't last long before it was given to my younger son when I bought a Schwinn. A good friend, Rich Agabiti, said why don’t you try cycling more seriously & join the Free Wheelers. I did & that changed my outlook on exercising from then on.

 

When I started to ride with the club one of my favorite rides was on Tuesday evening from Peter Muschal School, and the pizza party afterwards at the Take It Easy bar in Yardville. We also did time trials outside of Allentown back then. I did a few but lacked experience. The trials didn’t last too long after that. Alot of weekend rides got done, many with older members no longer with the club, but alot still are Joe Miller, Ed Post, Chris Cook, John Powers, to name a few. We did alot of rides out of [the then called] Trenton State College, out to the Sourlands and beyond. I also did many rides with Norm (God rest his soul) who taught me alot about endurance, he just kept going & going. Cranbury rides are another favorite of mine.

I like to do centuries, my longest ones were The Beast of the East events, which they don't have anymore. The one I liked the most was the Livestrong Challenge, very challenging, but very organized. I like doing the event, but because of health issues, the timing has to be right. I’ll miss doing centuries & rides to the shore with Joe McBride, may he RIP, a really great guy who knew how to make you laugh.

I don't ride as much and as hard as I used to. Because of the cancer I was diagnosed with four years ago, I am fighting the battle of my life. As Lance once said "as long as your moving, you’re still alive," and Jack Lalanne once said "the best way to hurt your body is to not use it". I did do a triathlon in 2010, at Seaside, NJ tho.  The ocean was rough & I learned alot about swimming in the ocean: you have to be in shape! I hope to do more in 2011, but it takes alot of training. I still get a lot of miles in, because of forced retirement, and I just pick my days. I try to ride as much as I can now, & hope to get 3 to 4 Thousand miles in a year. On M W F I ride with Dennis & the mature gang, a great bunch of guys & gals. 

When not riding here, I spend as much time as I can in Florida, with my son, his wife & my beautiful grand-daughter. She’s nine now & very active. She runs 5K races, swims distance, rides her bike, plus plays soccer all year round, except for in the summer when they are in New Jersey. She will be doing the kids triathlon in September, while my son does the full IRONMAN 140.6 in Panama City, Florida. While I’m in Florida, my old bike is down there and I try to ride 25-40 miles a day, with rest days here and there. Then I stop at the beach to swim, weather permitting and I run a little bit to break it up. I stay down there as long as I can but have to come back to Philadelphia every three to four weeks for treatments The greatest bike race I've ever seen was last years Tour de France. Our children gave my wife Susan and I the trip to France, where we watched three stages, an experience that will never be forgotten.

I'm glad I became a member of PFW many years ago, I met a lot of wise, knowledgeable, and good people. God willing I hope to meet many more good people and do many more rides. Ride on. . . .

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, 18 August

18 August 2012 UPDATE:

Today's ride is canceled.  Tom has postponed his until tomorrow.  I'll be joining him.  I hope to see you there.  Details are in the link below.


16 August 2012

I realize I'm competing against two other worthy rides on Saturday:  Tom Hammell's Lake Nockamixon Loop, and Don Sprague's Belmar century.

However, there might be a scant few Slugs out there who either a) don't want to drive that far, or b) don't want to ride that far.  For those people, I will be leading the following ride:

Pennington to Round Valley Reservoir
65 +/- miles
3600 +/- feet of elevation gain
2 rest stops

Starting time:  8:30 a.m.
Starting location: Hopewell YMCA Administration Building/YMCA parking lot, Main Street, across from Ingleside Rd, Pennington, NJ

10 extra miles* starting time:  8:00 a.m.
10 extra miles starting location:  my house**

As of now, the weather forecast is calling for a 23% chance of rain, which in bike addict terms is nothing.  Check this blog again on Friday night; if the weather forecast gets worse then we'll move the ride to Sunday (just like Tom is doing).



(*Yeah, I'm still that crazy.)

(**The deck is just about finished and the porch is on its way.  Yay!)

#31: The Dog's Bollocks

13 August 2012

Last week, as I kept myself stuffed into the unruly peloton headed for Walnford, breathing 98 percent humidity, sticky with sweat, doing my best to ignore the wall I'd just hit, I found myself at a loss to explain why I do hundred-mile rides.

All week long I thought about it.

Because if sixty miles is great, one hundred must be better.  Because I'm good at endurance.  Because the biker buddies I admired did it and I wanted to be like them.  Because I wanted to see what it was like.

Because of the post-century buzz that lasts two days.

I was in the book to lead a ride on Sunday.  Lambertville to Clinton?  Round Valley from Pennington?  Would people want to do hills again on Sunday after Cheryl's Saturday vertical lovefest?  It was Wednesday afternoon; I had a day, more or less, to make a decision.

That's when Dave C, the lead Boy in the Hood, sent around the Philly Bike Club's listing of a ride from Etra Park to Belmar, the same route that drenched Tom two weeks ago.  70-some-odd miles.

Well, hell, if you're gonna do seventy, you might as well do one hundred.  Dave, having missed the hundred mile mark the week before, was into that idea.  Shawn, who wasn't at the Event at all, was into it.  Jim, who worked the event and had a serious case of century jealousy, was into it.  Up on the blog it went.

Well, hell, if I'm gonna lead a ride that starts seven miles from home, I'm going to bike there.  I didn't say anything to they guys about that, but Jim is smart enough to know I'm dumb enough to tack an extra fourteen onto a century.  Was I biking over?  Um, yeah.  Did I want company?  Hell, yeah.

So I ate right and slept right and iced the coffee the night before.  I made a sandwich and placed four miniature bananas carefully into my pack.

I expected Jim to see them in the morning, lean in a little closer, and declare, "Oh, for heaven's sake!"  He didn't.  He was too busy showing up at my house before even the cats had their breakfast.

Poor Mojo.  The little guy couldn't figure out whether to hide or eat.  He ran back and forth from the kitchen to the stairs, keeping his eyes on the front door.  Food finally won, and I was able to eat my breakfast after he'd finished his.

We set off at 6:45 at a leisurely pace, talking the whole time.  At Mercer County Park we picked up four more people:  Dave C, Shawn, Rich, and Jack H.  I got us to Etra park in plenty of time and with 12.7 miles.

Linda M looked up as we pulled in.  "Oh, wow," she said.  "I've got six," I told her.  When we all left the park we were twenty-two.  As we rounded a corner a few miles in, she looked over at the long line behind her and said, "Oh, wow," again.

We kept an easy pace.  The air was dry and cool.  We had a little breeze.  The first food stop was in Farmingdale, at 27 or 40 or 47 miles, depending on how I wanted to track it.

Why is it that, even if you don't touch a perfect banana, it'll look like shit if it knows you're going to eat it later that day?

We got held up at a railroad crossing.  By the time I got my phone out, the two-car train had passed.  Anyway, though, that's more than half the group up there.

Linda took us to the coast via Sea Girt.  We rode north along the beach all the way to Belmar.  Dodging cars and pedestrians, our group got spread out.  I found myself next to Cliff.

Neither of us, it turns out, are beach people.  We talked about being on the beach as kids.

I was terrified of the waves the first time.

Once I got in the water, though, they couldn't get me out.

The current would pull me sideways.  I'd walk to shore, oblivious, and be terrified once again as I couldn't find my parents' umbrella anywhere.  This happened more than once.

There was the time we were stuck inside during a hurricane.

There was the time I was walking with my father on the street in Ventnor.  I think I was three.  He says I was older.  We stepped onto the boardwalk, a ramp from the street.  A few paces in, out of nowhere, I upchucked.  That's my memory of Ventnor:  barfing on the boardwalk.

That much I told Cliff.  The rest I'm just remembering:

Watching my parents watch in horror as Atlantic City turned into casinos.

Sand in everything.  Ice cream vendors on the beach.  Cigarette butts.  Sand in my popsicles.  Seaweed, clams.  The big kids with good bodies.  Me, a potato.

Talking my father into letting us buy an inflatable raft.  Getting heatstroke and collapsing on it as my sister and I were heading towards the water.

My mother being content to just sit on the blanket and read, turning herself a crispy brown.

Bleah.  You can have it.  I'd rather be on my bike.

After our rest stop at the usual spot, where today there were more sketchy people than usual, Linda took us up the road to the Shark River inlet.  I'd never been on that bridge.

Across the river was Bradley Beach (I think.  Ocean Grove?), far more crowded than Belmar.

The inlet:

Kermit helps me get artsy:

After the bridge we had miles of pace-killer starts and stops, turns and waits, as we dragged our crowd out of the city and back onto the open road.

We were just picking up speed when we passed an inlet.  I wanted a picture, but I was in the middle of the pack and there wasn't much of a shoulder.  To our right was a small beach, a dilapidated dock, pilings out in the water, and a dozen swans by the shore, mingling with other birds.

Since I didn't get a picture, I've drawn one instead:

Dave and I were talking about British slang.

"Do you know the word 'bollocks'?" he said.

"Of course!"

"That's my favorite word.  I love the word 'bollocks.' You can really get behind that word.  Bollocks!  You can go down a hill at thirty-five miles an hour and scream, 'Bollllllllooooooooocks!"

"Ha!"

"Bollocks is bad, of course," he went on, "but dog's bollocks is good.  You know why?"

It didn't take much imagination.  "Swingin' free," I answered.

"That's right.  Tail up, balls swinging.  The dog's bollocks."


We didn't get much further, just over the Parkway, when someone had a flat.  It was a good place to stop.  I texted a bit of the bollocks lesson to Jack and Dale so I wouldn't forget.  I wasn't the only one with my smartphone out, but others were taking advantage of the shade and the pine needles.  I found a corner out of sight.  I probably mooned the Parkway.

In Farmingdale again, the group split up.  Joe had to get back, and others just wanted to get moving.

I really should be stripped of my leader role after seventy miles:  I ended up calling out, "Hill Slugs, let's go" and pulling out before accounting for all of them.  Rich and Shawn had to sprint to catch up.  Jim did a great job of bridging the gap. 

We took a final rest stop in a strip-mall wasteland Dunkin' Donuts.  From here to Etra would only be another fifteen miles.  Halfway there, Dave began to slow down behind me.  I slowed to keep him in sight.  He caught up to me.  "Have you seen Shawn?" he asked. 

"He's not up front?"

"No.  And he's not behind us either."

He turned back, I stopped to pull out my sign-in sheet with Shawn's number, and Joe appeared from in front of me.  "I'm gonna call him," I said.  "You go on ahead."

Shawn picked up.  "Rich had a flat," he said.

"Where are you?"

"I don't know."

"Do you have  cue sheet?"

"No."

"Stay there.  We'll retrace our steps and come and get you."

With a tailwind, I headed back, catching up with Dave.  We heard Jim's bell behind us.  Good ol' sweep, back on duty.  In another half mile or so we found Shawn and Rich, ready to go.  So there we were, five of the six of the Mercer County Park Hill Slug contingent.  Jack, of course, had gone on ahead.  I knew we wouldn't see him again today.

We turned in to Etra Park just in case he'd be waiting, which he wasn't.  Shawn and Rich got water.  I ate the last of my food.  (I still had a few Shot Bloks left, but those don't count as food, not really.)

The rest of the ride was just pedal, pedal, pedal, into the headwind, against our bodies saying, "enough already!"  We parted ways near Mercer County Park, the Boys in the Hood getting their hundred in.  When Jim and I turned onto my street, we had 116 miles.

I've had that post-century buzz ever since.

Why do I do a century?  Because it's there.

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Sunday, 12 August

9 August 2012

Hey, how about another century?

The Philadelphia Bike Club is doing a 74-mile ride from Etra Park to Belmar on Sunday starting at 8:30 a.m.  This is the route that Tom and the Philly club attempted two weeks ago, only to be rained out halfway.

The Hill Slugs are turning it into a century by starting from Mercer County Park's East Picnic Area on Edinburg Road.

The Belmar ride will have a rest stop at the beach, plus rest stops along the way in each direction.  That works out perfectly for century riders.  And we can chill out on the grass at Etra Park before we head home, if we need to.

Our part of the ride will start at 7:15 a.m.

The Slugs will be back in the hills soon enough.

#30

Logo shamelessly lifted from the Free Wheelers.

4 August 2012

Flash!  CRACK!

Right over my head.  "That's not good," I'm thinking, and pedal harder.  It doesn't help.  I get across Quakerbridge Road and the question of whether I eat, sleep, or shower first when I get home is settled for me.  Kermit and I are no strangers to being rained on in the finishing stretches of a long bike ride.  We know how to handle each other.  As is always the case with these things, the road in front of my house is nearly dry when I turn into the driveway.

Now I've had my second shower of the day and sitting on a chair for the first time since breakfast.  Much better.  Sun's out again, too.

Here's why my shoes are going to take at least a few days to dry out:

The Century Engines we've relied on in the past have disappeared.  Joe and I didn't have to ask each other if we were going to ride the Princeton Event Century together (although we might have).  More than a month ago I started casting a wide net, hoping to catch some strong people to draft behind.  I caught a lot, and then some.

As has been my custom for the past handful of years, I rode my bike from home to Mercer County Community College, a six-ish mile trip.

When we gathered at registration, there were a dozen of us:

Me
Joe
Jason
Jack H.
Jud
Dave C.
Dave H.
Bob
Gordon
Alan
Mark
Gary!Gary!Gary!  (because I couldn't remember his name)

Even though I laid down the ground rules -- take it easy for the first 25, roll between 18.5 and 19.5 on the flats, no pulls longer than 5 minutes -- we found ourselves separated within the first few miles.  Gummed up in a big crowd, it was easy to do.  Four or five of our people pulled themselves into a faster group as I hollered out to Tom and Herb waiting for us at a Windsor Road intersection.  They didn't catch us, so there we were, down to a decent, manageable number.  So much for amicitia quam celeritate.  They got it reversed.

We all found each other, front and back, at the first rest stop.  The front guys were wiped from hanging with speed demons.  Ed, who'd arrived at the start late, had hammered more than anyone to catch us.  Tom and Herb pulled in soon after we did.

Plain Jim, having the time of his life as a carnival barker, was calling out, "WELCOME TO MILLSTONE!  WATER HERE!  GATORADE HERE!"

Ron, in the background under the tent, showed me his collection of road rash from last week's catastrophic wheel failure.  Cheryl warned me to check if Miss Piggy is running Ksyrium Elites.  (Will do, when I can unglue my ass from this chair.)

About to leave again, I asked, "We'll stay together this time?"  Gary!Gary!Gary!  nodded, having learned his lesson.  I raised my hand.  "Pinky swear?"

We did, and even got a little pace line action going after the rollers were over.  In New Egypt (where I was too lazy to stand in line for water and took advantage of a leaky hose nozzle instead, and where Mike B, laid up from a torn Achilles tendon and surgery, was volunteering) we picked up Fran and Ron (Ron from CT, since we have an NJ Ron already).

Ron and I had an amazing conversation about bike shops and the difference between bike shops and bike stores.  Having owned a shop for almost 20 years,  he had this to say:  "If you need a wheel, a bike store will sell you one.  A bike shop will build you one." 

I gave up trying to count heads in our unruly peloton.  We always seemed to be a dozen or so, but the makeup of that dozen was fungible.  Some peeled off for the metric; others, by earlier arrangement, dropped off the back.

When Gordon's rear tire blew in Pemberton, the timing couldn't have been better.  My back was starting to complain and I had to pee.  We found a place to pull off in what appeared to be an automotive junkyard.  I hid myself behind a tractor while the guys messed with Gordon's wheel.

His tire was sliced through from a piece of glass.  Jud had a spare, which was a blessing, because most people carry spare tubes, but few carry tires.  In ten minutes or so, we had everything sorted out.

I'd blame Gordon for my soaking later on, but it was my poor judgment that did it, and besides, he got caught in it too.

We had another rest stop at the Pinelands Nursery.  Too lazy to stand in line for water again, I went into the bathroom that only the volunteers know about and filled my bottles there.  I ended up in line anyway; I'd drained half of one of my bottles in about one minute anyway.

We lost two more of our group, as Dave C. and Joe decided to make their way back at Dave's pace.  (Good on you, Dave, and Jason, too, for hanging on as long as you did.  Lord knows I'd not have dared even try had I not been riding these roads for-fucking-ever.)

Despite my best efforts to keep eating (not easy to do, since I'm rarely hungry on century rides), the wall I usually hit at 70 miles manifested somewhere before 80.  It becomes a mental game at that point.  I have to keep myself distracted and remind myself that in 10 miles I'll feel better.  Lucky for me, we had one more rest stop at 82 miles.  It was at Walnford Mill, and it saw most of us sprawled out on the grass.

I ate, and the 80-mile wall haze lifted.  I stood up and beckoned the rest to do the same.  Ed was having none of it.  On his back, without turning his head, he said, "There are some clouds up there that warrant further study."

He commented on the two layers, one high up, and one moving in.

It was that second layer that was the problem.  We headed west.  West was battleship gray.  Above us was sunlight an puffy cumulus with an all-too-familiar outlined glow.  I was near the front, being pulled by Jud and Alan (who were up front for, like, the whole ride) and looking at the sky.

"Well, if we get rained on it'll clean the grass off my legs," I offered.  To the north, the sky was blue.  All we had to do was get north before the storm did.  The pace picked up.  Strangers mixed in.  Our group seemed to have fractured, but there were so many I couldn't tell who was with us and who wasn't.  We didn't stop until the light at Route 130 forced us to, and it was only then that I figured out who'd been left behind:  Fran, Ron, and (shit!) Gordon.

The temperature dropped by at least ten degrees.  A headwind swept in (but of course!).  If I kept this pace and went straight home, maybe I'd beat the rain.

By the turn onto Hughes drive, we were starting to get wet.  I said goodbye to whomever was left and lit out for home.

Flash!  CRACK!

To my left.

I'm already wet with sweat so what's the difference?  Sky's still clear where I need to go.  Left onto Youngs and all the cars have their headlights on, both directions.

Flash!  CRACK!

Right over my head.  "That's not good," I'm thinking, and pedal harder.

*****

Thanks, everyone, for a good 100+ miles.  For those of you who left our group at Pinelands early in order to get a head start home, I hope you all had a good laugh when the rest came back wet.  For those I left behind, I'm truly sorry and I hope you're dry now.

Where I Work

1 August 2012

A week ago I posted pictures of the building our lab is moving to next year.  I'd posted them so that everyone in the lab could see where we'd be going.  So, now that you've all seen the new PNI under construction, I figured I might as well link to a short video of the entire campus.

The link is here.

I've been here not quite two years, and yet I so seldom leave the lab that I have no clue where most of the buildings in this video are.  The closest you'll see to the building I work in is at 1:44.  Ours is just out of sight behind Schultz Lab.  There's no reason to show our building off.  It looks like a basement inside, all four floors of it. 

2:30 to 2:40 is fun.