how to make a 350-foot drop disappear: zoom in
25 March 2014
The route was perfect for a mild, cloudless, slightly breezy, spring day. Unfortunately, Sunday was not a mild, cloudless, slightly breezy spring day.
We pushed off from Lambertville at 40 degrees, under a blanket of clouds, with a steady northwest wind. The wind got stronger, we never saw the sun, and the air never warmed more than a few degrees.
But we had a good time anyway.
The first dozen miles were mostly uphill. I've been on almost all of these roads before; however, I'd managed to forget that 519 out of Stockton is a double-humper. Having warned the group about the first ascent, I spent the second one apologizing.
I thought all would be well and good when we got to the ridge. That's where we hit the wind, the sort of wind that, when one is on a slight upgrade, makes one ponder why one is moving under 15 miles per hour on an apparently flat road.
We passed through Pittstown. Jim knows the spot well enough now to point out my favorite sign: "Do not enter. This is not an exit." Perricone's, where we used to have our second stop on the Double Reservoir Ride, which was always perfectly chilled and roomy inside, which had a shaded picnic table outside, which was the only place between High Bridge and Frenchtown that I could think of stopping on a hilly metric, which had gone from a deli to a restaurant in the past year, is now out of business completely.
There wasn't much time to ponder the fate of Perricones, because as soon as we turned onto 579 we were climbing again, 415 feet in 2.9 miles, straight into the wind.
Our reward was the descent on Baptist Church Road. It doesn't look like much. It never does when my camera is involved. Trust me, though: between the field and the hills is a 350-foot drop and an interstate highway.
We tried to figure out which ridge we were looking at. Snakehead wondered if it might be where Fiddler's Elbow is, but I knew that we were two ridges and one river south of that. The best I could figure was that we were looking at the ridge that hides Bloomsbury. Now that I have the online maps to geek out over, I can tell you that we were looking at Musconetcong Mountain. On the far western side is Bloomsbury and the Musconetcong River in the Delaware watershed. If you follow the ridge to its northeastern end, you'll get to Schooley's Mountain, where Tom likes to drag us at least once each summer. Streams on the southern face of the ridge drain into the Delaware on the western side and into the Raritan on the eastern side. Route 579, where we'd just been, seems to be the dividing point. I tell you all of this because I'm sure you were desperate to know.
At the bottom of the drop, we still had 5 miles to go. We continued downhill. My fingers began to freeze, I was hungry, and I needed to take a furious wizz. I forgot all of that, though, when we pulled into Clinton. The renovations by the river are complete. Now we can walk to the water's edge.
The spillway:
The water wheel below the spillway:
Duck butt:
The river's edge:
More mallards:
The plaza by the river:
Snakehead, Bagel Hill Barry, Needs A Nickname Ron, and Plain Jim
It was here I remembered to ask Jim about the frames hanging in WheelFine. "Lugs?"
"Lugs," he said.
"I want a steel frame with pretty lugs," I said wistfully, knowing full well that Kermit has fine lugs, albeit hiding under psychedelic paint.
Jim said, "If you get a frame, I'll build the bike."
Oh no. "I can't get another bike," I whined. "I have three in heavy rotation already. I use them all. What would I do with another one? Where would I put it?"
Inside Citispot (which, to my relief, has neither closed nor burned down), Jim said, "There was a bit more climbing than I expected."
Barry said, "I knew what to expect," and to me, "You need to stop apologizing for the hills. It's a hilly ride."
"Yeah," I conceded, "If you wanted a flat ride you'd be out with Larry right now."
I never meant to eat the whipped cream on the top of my mocha, but when I got to the bottom, the whipped cream was gone.
Jim had to sing us through the tangle of intersections on our way out of town. I was aiming for the view on Sidney Road just after the turn off of Pittstown Road.
Looking west, towards the ridge we'd been on:
Looking southeast, where we were headed:
Are those my Dr. Seuss trees? I think those are my Dr. Seuss trees. We'll know in about ten minutes.
About ten minutes later, Ron asked, "Are those those trees?"
"Yep!"
On his way to the trees, Marc's chain pulled a Miss Piggy and jumped between the cassette and spokes. I feel somewhat vindicated, because Marc has a 32-tooth cog in the back, as I do. It's a new bike; the cables have stretched. "I swear it's making me slower," he said.
"The wind is making you slower!" Jim answered.
We could forget about the wind for now. It would be at our backs for most of the ride home.
Here's the view from the intersection of 579 and 523:
Our tiny little Sourland Mountain is in there somewhere.
Although we regularly take Sandy Ridge-Mount Airy Road to Lambertville and Sergeantsville, this is the first time I've taken pictures from the intersection at Bowne Station Road. We would follow the power lines all the way back to Lambertville.
For the record, lest one assume I stop for every cow, we passed lots of cows on this ride. Until now I did not take pictures.
After the ride I drove to Upper Black Eddy to pick up an order of coffee from Homestead. There, I met the roaster and found out that they'll ship for $7.99, free if the order is over $100 (between me and Terry C, we've got that covered). They're starting a subscription service, too. If enough of us go in on this, I could be handing out 5 pound bags of coffee from my living room. Let me know.
I decided to take county roads most of the way home, and in doing so I saw the views on 519 and 579 again.
As usual, the Boys were asleep when I got home. Their slogan is "We nap so you don't have to."
Burnaby, 9.5, and Mojo, 3
Jack and I went out to dinner with Terry C, Gordon, Terry S, Dale, and Sean. Over heaps of Mexican food, I told Sean of my lug lust. We hatched a plan. "I could get a frame," I mused, "and put Gonzo's components on. It would still be my commuter bike."
Later that night I fleshed it out even more in an email to Jim, adding that I could donate the LeMond frame (which I've never liked because it's lugless and badly painted) to the New Brunswick Bike Exchange. Jim could occupy himself all winter by building not one, but two bikes.
The next morning I mentioned the plan to Jack, not being sure how much of it he'd heard over the din at the restaurant. He said, "Why not get another bike?"
This, dear readers, is a good husband.
I explained why it wouldn't be prudent.
I let Jim know that Jack would not kick me out of the house if I brought another frame into the house. Jim wrote back,
"...Jack has not heard and been seduced by the siren song of tools. He hoards them not; he does not compare and contrast materials and manufacturers; he does not have opinions on, for example, the relative merits of chromoly vs. stainless. He wastes his substance on such fripperies as wine, literature, and fountain pens. He will never know the joy of a perfectly-torqued bottom bracket, and the silence that betokens its excellence. My hands twitch with the anticipation of the setting of the torque wrenches...As if the getting of another bike is the end of the building, adjusting, and tweaking process! No, a new bike would be even worse, because EVERY measurement and specification would be subject to adjustment, not merely to attempting to match the bikes you already have! (I suppose I could just leave the new bike the way it comes from the shop... no, on second thought, I couldn't; I am constitutionally incapable of such a thing.)
Oh, my stars. I'm all a-twitter now; I may have to download and install a new operating system [or] something just to calm down."
So. If anyone out there sees a 54 cm electric blue or cherry red steel frame with polished chrome lugs, let me know.
Meanwhile, I'll run the Lambertville to Clinton route again when it's 60 degrees and sunny. Which, the way this year has been going, will be, oh, some time in July.
Is it snowing out yet?
Yes, it is. The grass is coated. Again. I'm going to go bang my head against a wall now.
