the penultimate piece of cherry nut squash bread
27 May 2014
Mid-week, Blake wrote to ask me if anything was going on hill-wise over the weekend. There was the Memorial Day All-Paces ride to avoid, and a pilgrimage to Sergeantsville needed to happen before month's end, so it was settled.
To every FreeWheeler this side of Route 1, and to a fair number of flatlanders too, Sergeantsville is synonymous with hills and dumplings. Me, I prefer the homemade cherry nut squash bread and the occasional chocolate muffin.
Now that Sun and his wife have sold the place, there has been much mourning and musing. What will replace the dumplings? Will the place be any good?
We're losing rest stops right and left, it seems. If they don't burn down (Peacock's), they close (Roy's, Perricone's) or turn into useless pizza joints (Stanton, Neshanic).
Nobody wanted to ride with me from home, but Blake, Ron, and John K were in the parking lot at the usual Pennington starting point. Ron said, "A marshall came through here. He says that this is going to be the staging area for the parade. We might have trouble getting out if we get back here before one o'clock." We were starting late, 9:30; I figured we'd be able to miss that.
When it comes to biking, I play the long game. I never go all-out at any point on a ride. I focus on having enough energy not just for the day's ride, but for the next one, and for the commutes during the week, and for whatever long-distance deal I make with myself for the following weekend. I've overtrained more than once. I'm not keen on repeating the experience.
Having taken Sunday off (I did yard work, housework, and lab work and then went to NYC with Jack to see Taj Mahal perform), my legs were fresher than John's (he'd burned it up with Ken) and Ron's (first Philly, then the Etra speed demons). I was feeling pretty good.
Ron and I got talking about the speed of the Sunday Etra rides. He and Dave H have both said that I can handle it, but Ron finally put it in a way that made me think that I probably can: "It's just talk," he said. "It's like your rides. You get a reputation and it's not true."
"I've been hearing he's averaging over 18," I said. Ron said it's not true. "Seventeen, maybe. And it's only 40 miles." Yeah, I can probably do that.
Anyway, Sergeantsville.
As I said, I was feeling good, so I threw in a few extra miles on the way over. We went down to the covered bridge. Blake watched the rest of us go under it, chiding us because it's the only covered bridge on this side of the river. The Pennsylvania side is lousy with 'em.
I don't usually ride these roads in warm weather. Sergeantsville and Lambertville are winter destinations. Things look different when the trees have leaves.
Sergeantsville-Rosemont Road:
The Sergeantsville General Store is packed with cyclists. What's a pack of cyclists called, anyway, if they're sitting around at a rest stop? A stink. A stink of cyclists. There was a whole stink of cyclists sitting around the general store.
"Sun!"
"Heyyyy! Long time, no see!" He always says that.
"When's your last day?"
"Tomorrow."
"Yikes!"
"Tomorrow is our last day, then closed for one day," he explained. And on Wednesday the new owners are going to reopen the store. They already own a store in Stockton, he explained, so this would be easy.
"I've been here nineteen years," Sun said.
"Ninteen years and open every day, no vacation" I added.
"Yep."
I took one of the last two pieces of squash bread, to take home, and a chocolate muffin. And, of course, a small cup of watery coffee (they never did get that part right).
We sat outside. John took some panoramic pictures.
"We're losing rest stops and people," Blake mused. "When's Cheryl moving?" We got to talking about the few general stores left around here. When I told him that I'd never stopped for any decent amount of time at the Carversville General Store, he said, "Sounds like it's time to do a ride out of Yardley."
I went back inside to use the bathroom. Sun emerged from behind the counter. "Give me a hug!"
He must be stinking as bad as we do from hugging so many sweaty cyclists.
Sun's wife -- I never did learn her name -- appeared out of nowhere and asked for a hug too.
"Lemme get your picture," I said.
"C'mon outside so I can get your picture in front of the store."
He did come out, eventually. Here he is, summoning Blake and John to join him:
John, Sun, and Blake:
We said our goodbyes and pushed off as the inevitable next wave of cyclists pulled in.
Deciding against one of my usual routes home, we went up to Back Brook and took Runyon Mill to the top of the Sourland Mountain. In true Hill Slug style, we tested the hard-pack dirt section of Stony Brook Road. There are fewer potholes there than there are on some of our regular roads. The extra miles got us back to Pennington at 1:15. The streets were empty, and so was the parking lot.
There were five leftover chocolate bunnies in my bag. I gave them out and headed home.
I had just enough time for lunch and a shower before heading off to the lab. Dale and Sean gave Jack a ride to Terry C's while I did what I had to do with an ataxic mouse. When I got to the lab, everyone else was there too. So much for the holiday. "Why are we all here?" Andrea asked. "Because we're sick fucks," I said, turning back to my now-dead mouse and taking out its brain.
I got to the cookout only 45 minutes late, and yes, I did wash my hands first.
We shared the cherry nut squash bread, five FreeWheelers and two lookers-on. Sergeantsville is dead. Long live Sergeantsville.
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