Saturday, August 17, 2013
#36
Yeah, we walked it.
17 August 2013
Much better this time. All centuries should be this painless.
Much better this time. All centuries should be this painless.
Joe had put out the call for a 69-miler to Belmar from Etra Park.
I rode from home, leaving enough time to get a flat or miss a turn, but not both. This is the second time this year I've had a flat on Old York Road outside of Hightstown. I ran over something. I saw it too late. I called Joe to let him know where I was. I can change a tube, but I'm not as fast about it as most of my buddies are. The deep rim, stiff bead, and rear wheel that's a bitch to seat properly don't help either. Nor does my allergy to rubber.
Then, while attempting to make up for lost time, I missed the turn onto Etra Road, winding up in the heart of Hightstown and having to double back.
Lesson learned. When traveling alone, add twice as much lead time.
Joe waited, and I arrived ten minutes late with almost two more miles than I'd planned to have. Lucky for me, none of the people waiting was the impatient type. Nobody complained. Nobody even razzed me for being a double yutz, even though I clearly deserved to be razzed for being a double yutz. Bagel Hill Barry was kind enough to let me use his floor pump to replace the CO2 with air.
The pace was chill. The attitude was chill. Even the air was a little chill. When we had any wind at all, it pushed us home. Although we sometimes got spread out, nobody jumped ahead and nobody fell off the back.
Towards the end, Jack H and I split off onto Nurko Road towards Mercer County Park, where Jack had started. Because of the bridge construction on Old Trenton Road over the Assunpink Creek, I'd had to ride through the woods on the bike path through Mercer County Park in the morning. I never enjoy that on the way home: the path is bumpy and slightly uphill, both of which are just plain annoying when I'm tired. So when we got to the construction site and saw a couple of people talking next to what used to be the bridge, I asked if we'd be able to get across. "You can get across," the tall one said, "But you'll have to walk."
I balked at the I-beam at first. But a bridge out is a bridge out, and, following the OLPH-Hammell Rule, if one can get across, one must get across. So cross we did. It was easy. It was a double-wide I-beam or something, set there no doubt so that the construction workers don't have to drive the eight mile detour to get to the other side.
Inside the park, Jack peeled off onto the bike path to get to his car. I let the wind, at my back for a change, push me to the western entrance and on towards home.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Hateful People Doing Hateful Things
14 August 2013
The lengthy blog posts will resume eventually. Meanwhile, if these images are perplexing, surf on over to Americablog and read all about Russia's ban on being openly gay, and what it means for gay 2014 Olympic athletes. Despicable.
artwork by Vasily Slonov
Saturday, August 3, 2013
#35
3 August 2013
I woke up from my nap craving cheese curls. I just ate two bowls of cheese curls. This, gentle reader, is not a bad thing. Not today.
Feeling like crap after a century, while not unprecedented, is not usual for me. I've been jet-lagged twice, and wind-blown to exhaustion on a number of occasions, but this time I think I didn't eat enough.
You know what happens from there: you want to eat but you also want to barf, so you don't eat, which makes you want to barf, so you don't eat.
Dave C says this about riding a century: "Eighty percent is fifty percent mental." Or is it the other way around? Anyway, if you're doing a century and Dave's calculation begins to make sense, you know you're in the mind-over-body part of the ride.
I set out from home at 6:35 a.m. Having been on heavy Gonzo most recently, riding Kermit felt like riding air. My 2013 bike tunes playlist was loud and clear on my mental stereo. I reminded myself that, as light and good as things feel now, in a handful of hours, Kermit is going to feel like Gonzo, and the music will be mud in my head.
Joining me today were Joe, Jason, Jack H, Dave H, Gary, and Mark. Jack went off the front with a faster group before the first 25 miles were over. Around the same time we lost Jason off the back when he got caught in a pack that wasn't following the white arrows.
We caught up with Jack somewhere on Colliers Mills road. He said he'd learned his lesson.
Joe, who was in charge of route painting again this year, said that Jason would wind up at the New Egypt rest stop anyway, which he did, after realizing he'd gone off course and turned himself around. He decided not to rush the rest stop and ride with Barb, Dr. Lynne, and Judy (she of the Winter Larry's Hill adventure) instead.
Did I mention that it was raining? It was raining. Not much. It was the kind of rain where you have to look for raindrops in puddles to verify that it's still raining. Although, as it occurred to me while I was looking at puddles, that puddles are a decent enough indicator on their own that conditions are less than ideal.
"This is a rooster-tail ride," Mark announced. After negotiating a mile of milled road in Plumsted, we were in a pace line through Fort Dix. Normally, being a few riders into the line is the best place to be. Not so much today: I had to keep wiping my face, and every time I took a drink I got a few grains of sand mixed in. No, today the best place to be was in front, showering everyone else with road splut.
As we made our way towards Columbus, the rain stopped. The roads were always wet, as if the rain were itself a faster rider on our route.
At Mansfield park, I heard a familiar voice: "It's about time you showed up." Marilyn. I haven't seen her in a while. The last time I rode with her was a few years ago in the Adirondacks, where she aptly described the "reverse potholes" that pass for road patches up there. Anyway, after I gave her the finger, we got a chance to catch up on each other's lives a little.
Then it was off to Walnford. This is the mind-fuck part of the ride. If you look at the route map, you'll see that bit south of Allentown that shoots off to the east just to go west again. If there weren't a rest stop at the eastern end of that jut, one might cut it out altogether (I know a few who have done so in the past).
As it happened, I needed that stop more than usual. This is because, at the intersection of 528 and Chesterfield Road, where the arrows clearly indicated to go straight, some dude who'd latched onto us cut left right in front of me, forcing me to hold myself up against him with my right arm as I wrenched to the left to avoid falling down. While we both stayed upright (kudos to Kermit), and he apologized profusely, my back was not pleased with the maneuver and let me know all the way to Walnford. Also, my shorts were still wet, and loose, and chafing.
The Walnford rest stop is the most scenic. It's also feels like an eight-mile hike up to the food and bathrooms. I could hear Jim booming, "Water! Gatorade!" before I got there.
"Some people's voices carry," I said, rounding a corner and some bushes.
"Shut up. I hate you."
I found a chair because the grass was too wet to stretch on and there weren't any low branches to hang from. My back had calmed down, but my stomach was acting up. I tried to eat but I didn't finish.
There was one more rest stop at 93 miles. Joe said he planned to go because his wife was working there. I was at the something-percent-mental point, the one where stopping again would do more harm than good. I said that I was going to skip it. The other guys said they probably would too.
We only had 20 more miles to go. I was losing steam fast, and it was made worse by bumpy roads and a couple more milled streets. I resorted to begging the guys not to drop me. The drizzle started up again. I thought I might have heard thunder; I chose to ignore it.
At the last rest stop, Joe and Dave peeled off. The rest of us ploughed on, the guys letting me set the plodding pace. At the entrance to Mercer County College I waved goodbye and continued home. On the last mile, a small hill, I couldn't tell if I was riding Gonzo or Kermit, just like I figured, however many hours ago that was.
I hosed Kermit down before going inside. My legs were crusted with grime. My shorts were wet and destined for the trash can. I was too nauseated to eat so I showered instead, watching grass and grit run into the drain. I ate some yogurt, felt sleepy, and headed for the bed.
Half an hour later the cheese curls thing happened. But you heard that part already.
I woke up from my nap craving cheese curls. I just ate two bowls of cheese curls. This, gentle reader, is not a bad thing. Not today.
Feeling like crap after a century, while not unprecedented, is not usual for me. I've been jet-lagged twice, and wind-blown to exhaustion on a number of occasions, but this time I think I didn't eat enough.
You know what happens from there: you want to eat but you also want to barf, so you don't eat, which makes you want to barf, so you don't eat.
Dave C says this about riding a century: "Eighty percent is fifty percent mental." Or is it the other way around? Anyway, if you're doing a century and Dave's calculation begins to make sense, you know you're in the mind-over-body part of the ride.
I set out from home at 6:35 a.m. Having been on heavy Gonzo most recently, riding Kermit felt like riding air. My 2013 bike tunes playlist was loud and clear on my mental stereo. I reminded myself that, as light and good as things feel now, in a handful of hours, Kermit is going to feel like Gonzo, and the music will be mud in my head.
Joining me today were Joe, Jason, Jack H, Dave H, Gary, and Mark. Jack went off the front with a faster group before the first 25 miles were over. Around the same time we lost Jason off the back when he got caught in a pack that wasn't following the white arrows.
We caught up with Jack somewhere on Colliers Mills road. He said he'd learned his lesson.
Joe, who was in charge of route painting again this year, said that Jason would wind up at the New Egypt rest stop anyway, which he did, after realizing he'd gone off course and turned himself around. He decided not to rush the rest stop and ride with Barb, Dr. Lynne, and Judy (she of the Winter Larry's Hill adventure) instead.
Did I mention that it was raining? It was raining. Not much. It was the kind of rain where you have to look for raindrops in puddles to verify that it's still raining. Although, as it occurred to me while I was looking at puddles, that puddles are a decent enough indicator on their own that conditions are less than ideal.
"This is a rooster-tail ride," Mark announced. After negotiating a mile of milled road in Plumsted, we were in a pace line through Fort Dix. Normally, being a few riders into the line is the best place to be. Not so much today: I had to keep wiping my face, and every time I took a drink I got a few grains of sand mixed in. No, today the best place to be was in front, showering everyone else with road splut.
As we made our way towards Columbus, the rain stopped. The roads were always wet, as if the rain were itself a faster rider on our route.
At Mansfield park, I heard a familiar voice: "It's about time you showed up." Marilyn. I haven't seen her in a while. The last time I rode with her was a few years ago in the Adirondacks, where she aptly described the "reverse potholes" that pass for road patches up there. Anyway, after I gave her the finger, we got a chance to catch up on each other's lives a little.
Then it was off to Walnford. This is the mind-fuck part of the ride. If you look at the route map, you'll see that bit south of Allentown that shoots off to the east just to go west again. If there weren't a rest stop at the eastern end of that jut, one might cut it out altogether (I know a few who have done so in the past).
As it happened, I needed that stop more than usual. This is because, at the intersection of 528 and Chesterfield Road, where the arrows clearly indicated to go straight, some dude who'd latched onto us cut left right in front of me, forcing me to hold myself up against him with my right arm as I wrenched to the left to avoid falling down. While we both stayed upright (kudos to Kermit), and he apologized profusely, my back was not pleased with the maneuver and let me know all the way to Walnford. Also, my shorts were still wet, and loose, and chafing.
The Walnford rest stop is the most scenic. It's also feels like an eight-mile hike up to the food and bathrooms. I could hear Jim booming, "Water! Gatorade!" before I got there.
"Some people's voices carry," I said, rounding a corner and some bushes.
"Shut up. I hate you."
I found a chair because the grass was too wet to stretch on and there weren't any low branches to hang from. My back had calmed down, but my stomach was acting up. I tried to eat but I didn't finish.
There was one more rest stop at 93 miles. Joe said he planned to go because his wife was working there. I was at the something-percent-mental point, the one where stopping again would do more harm than good. I said that I was going to skip it. The other guys said they probably would too.
We only had 20 more miles to go. I was losing steam fast, and it was made worse by bumpy roads and a couple more milled streets. I resorted to begging the guys not to drop me. The drizzle started up again. I thought I might have heard thunder; I chose to ignore it.
At the last rest stop, Joe and Dave peeled off. The rest of us ploughed on, the guys letting me set the plodding pace. At the entrance to Mercer County College I waved goodbye and continued home. On the last mile, a small hill, I couldn't tell if I was riding Gonzo or Kermit, just like I figured, however many hours ago that was.
I hosed Kermit down before going inside. My legs were crusted with grime. My shorts were wet and destined for the trash can. I was too nauseated to eat so I showered instead, watching grass and grit run into the drain. I ate some yogurt, felt sleepy, and headed for the bed.
Half an hour later the cheese curls thing happened. But you heard that part already.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
