Why I Don't Take Pictures on Cranbury Rides

 Lake Manalapan, Thompson Park, Jamesburg

31 January 2016

Winter Larry told me to bring my camera. Jim and I met in Plainsboro for extra miles. He was on the Krakow Monster, now laden with fenders and a pannier. I'd swapped wheels on Gonzo, who was now outfitted with Beaker's cast-off prima donna racing wheels. I wanted to find out how much of the tank feel was coming from the wheels.  A lot, it turns out, but not all.  I'd forgotten to put the cycle computer back on; today would be a day free of distance and speed until the end, when I'd have to ask Jim's GPS how far we'd gone.

We were a small group: Larry, Rick, Peter, Marc, Jim, and me.

When we turned into Thompson Park and I saw that the lake was frozen over, I called out that I was stopping for a picture.

Ahead of us was a hill, and at the end of the hill, a short driveway that leads to Perrineville Road. Anyone who has dragged herself out of bed in the dark to get to the Pumpkin Patch Pedal before dawn knows this hill, because it's the one that leads off the 100-mile ride. "I'll meet you at the end," I said.

the picture that got me in trouble 

I was quick about it, and I could see riders on the long, curving hill ahead. When I got to the top, though, nobody was there. The road through the park continues past the driveway, and I followed it down a long, curving descent towards a playground.

I didn't see anyone there.

Maybe I missed a turn?

I doubled back up the hill to the driveway and turned south on Perrineville. Larry had told us that the rest stop would be at Le Chateau de Ptomaine; south was the reasonable turn to make. Still nobody. I went all the way to the next traffic light before I stopped and pulled out my phone. I was at Schoolhouse Road.

I called Jim first, then Marc, then Larry. Nobody picked up. As I was leaving Larry a message, Marc appeared. He was on his way home because he had to be somewhere in the afternoon.  "They're back at the lake, looking for you," he said.

He went on, and Jim called back. "We're at the lake," he said.  "Larry wants you to come back." Before I could pack up my phone and turn around, Jim called again. He put Larry on. I had new instructions. "Take Schoolhouse," he said. "We'll meet you at the end."

There was a surprise hill along the way, and I was certain I'd never been on this road before. I got to the end before the others did, putting a few more miles onto my trip than the others would have.

Jim arrived first. I told him I wasn't sure if I should apologize or complain. I told Larry, "Ride leaders are supposed to wait at the top of a hill, and they're supposed to keep their cell phones on."

"I didn't know that," he said, knowing that I'd know that he did know those things.

Larry had picked Clarksburg as the rest stop because he wanted to stay well away from shady roads and Old York's potholes. "They've renovated a little," he added.

That didn't stop me and Jim from pestering him to go to Roy's instead. We continued to pester him even as we pulled into the Chateau de Ptomaine parking lot.  From the outside, I could not see a difference.  The inside was the same as it has been for years.

Worse, even, because this time there was no running water in the bathroom. I had to wash my hands in the slop sink outside of the bathroom. There was no soap.

The people who work here handle food.

I bought coffee (boiled water) and a muffin (wrapped). It's been years since I've been to Le Chateau. It will be years before I return. I'd rather bounce over potholes and skid on ice than enter the Clarksburg General Store again.

I did stop for one more picture at Etra Lake at Milford Road. This time I made sure it was okay and that the group would wait. I was quick about it.

"Oh, you're taking a picture of the lake," somebody said. "I thought you were going to take a picture of us!"

"Okay," I replied, even though I rarely take pictures of people.

Larry, Peter, Rick, and Jim

In the end, despite the Thompson Park mishap, we got back with the right number of miles and on time. I'll probably keep the fancy wheels on Gonzo, at least until the next spoke breaks. They take the edge off of the effort needed to get the bike rolling. On the other hand, I don't like having to glance down at my rear wheel every few miles to make sure all the parts are where they should be.

Nor'easter/Northeaster/Ed's Eighteen Reasons

30 January 2016

Nor'easter

Let's get last week's obligatory Nor'easter pictures out of the way first. Jonas is the reason that Tom, Ed, and I went to Pennypack Park today.

A week ago, we all knew that none of us was going anywhere. Jack and I woke to snow-drifted windows on the leeward side of the house:

The best thing about a blizzard, from a cat's point of view, is the bird feeder:

Snow was piling up on the deck:

I set Gonzo onto the trainer on the porch and pedaled through my 2016 cycling playlist as I watched the snow around the house and the steam around my head. I was dressed for January but shed to September in the first fifteen minutes.

Here's what the back yard looked like mid-day:

This is on the inside of the porch, exposed to the northeasterly wind:

I couldn't see out the door.

While I was sweating out back, unbeknownst to me, Jack was shoveling out front. I felt guilty. There was a lull in the storm in the late afternoon, so I went out to shovel the additional six inches that had fallen. Across the street, snow extended beyond my neighbor's roof:

I took another peek at the deck before bedtime. The accumulation on the deck railing is usually a good indicator of how much snow we've had.

Sunday was sunny, and by mid-morning, all of our nearest neighbors were moving snow. One of them was learning how to use her parents' snow blower and offered to clear our driveway and sidewalk. She looked like she was having fun, so I gestured for her to go ahead. She did in minutes what would have taken me an hour.

I cleared a path around the side of the house, hoping to reach the porch. All was well and good until I turned the corner into a four-foot snow drift.

I dug out from the back of the garage instead:

Then I took some more pictures:

Summer in winter:

Northeaster

Driving to northeast Philadelphia's Pennypack Park for a ride on the paved and plowed trail was Tom's idea. I said yes right away. Others begged off for perfectly legitimate reasons. Ed was waffling. I told him not to be a waffle. He listened, and at 8:50 a.m., Tom arrived with Ed, their bikes on the back of Tom's truck. Grover and I piled in. Half an hour later, we were at the Pine Road entrance, the northern terminus of the trail.

The blacktop was clear, but the bridges weren't. Back in my  mountain biking days, I would have crunched and slid through the melting snow. Now, with a stern warning from my doctor five years ago that one uncontrolled fall could mean back surgery, I'm a complete wuss and walk my bike over the slippery stuff. Watching Tom, on a mountain bike, and Ed, on a road bike with wide tires, fishtail through the mush, made me feel more justified in walking.

Tom had said at the start that today would be about taking pictures.

The round trip would be 24 miles. We were probably less than five miles into it when we encountered the closed bridge.

Pah! Since when does that stop Tom? Two weeks ago, he led riders across an I-beam. What's a little wooden fence?  Up and over we went.

Grover on the other side:

The trail ends in Holmesburg, at the Delaware River:

Low tide:

Scenery from the return trip, northbound:

This is the first time Tom has crossed the same closed bridge twice:

Ed photobombs Tom, who is at the far end of the bridge, taking a picture of the spillway behind us.

The spillway:

This bridge was completely covered in ice and compacted snow, so I got some pictures before going across:

Around the corner, on the other side of the Pennypack Creek, is a church on a hill:

The trail has a handful of short, steep rollers that are tougher to climb going north. I tried, I really tried, to get a picture that would show how steep the path is.

Bigger hill, better picture:

Ed's Eighteen Reasons Riding in Pennypack Park is Better than Spinning Indoors

"If I had a blog," Ed mused on the drive home, "I'd post eighteen reasons why riding in Pennypack Park is better than spinning indoors." Ed doesn't have a blog. He doesn't spin indoors. I do have a blog. I do spin indoors*. The task would be mine.


1. Not having to wake up at 6:00 a.m. and exercise before breakfast;

2. Not having to stare at a screen that mocks me with my sub-par power output**;

3. Not having anything to look at but a roomful of sweaty spinners;

4. Breakfast;

5. Coffee;

6. Carpooling with buddies who talk about techie stuff like satellite technology for half an hour;

7. That feeling you get when you pull your bike from the car and put the front wheel on;

8. That feeling you get when the sun hits your face;

9. That feeling you get when you take the first pedal stroke;

10. Wind in your face;

11. Wind at your back;

12. Snow, water, and bare trees;

13. Curvy descents;

14. Spinning up the hills***;

15. Stopping for pictures;

16. Watching Ed devour a chocolate fudge croissant doughnut****;

17. Lunch; and

18. A warm shower.




* For six more weeks. Then we change our clocks and I can bike to work again instead.

** My favorite instructor set a goal for me this winter. He wants me to be able to hold this number for thirty seconds. I've come within 12 watts of it twice, but only for a few seconds. I have six more weeks to try. I don't think he knows that I'm doing this on an empty stomach. If he's read this far, he does now.

*** Watts training!

**** I said, "That's four separate things." He offered me a bite. It tasted like fat, sugar, and salt.

Rowlf Arrives, Staying Local, and Getting Advice

Pole Farm

17 January 2016

A light rain was falling, and I hadn't yet had breakfast, when I drove to the post office to pick up Rowlf's frame. Wet roads meant I could dedicate the day to figuring out how to outfit my new, 30-year-old, Colnago Saronni Master.

The condition of the box was not encouraging. Shipped from Germany on December 28, it had only been checked into New York's processing center a week ago. It would take five more days to get to central New Jersey. There was fresh tape on one end of the box; I guess Customs got a good look at it before sending the frame on its way.

The eBay seller had done a good job of packing the frame, though, and it arrived in as perfect condition as a well-loved frame from 1986 could be. I let Rowlf and Rowlf get acquainted:

The box, meanwhile, was a cat magnet:

I almost forgot about the shifters that the seller had given me (we'd had a long e-mail conversation about steel frames); I went digging into the packaging in the trash to retrieve them:

By the time I'd finished breakfast, the sun was coming out. Sean and I made tentative plans to get an afternoon ride in. That gave me a few hours to take Rowlf up to Wheelfine for an assessment.

The only plans I had were to build the wheels myself (with Michael checking my work at the end) and to outfit the frame with Campagnolo parts.

I'd envisioned using down-tube shifters for no other reasons than the braze-ons are there and that's how I thought bikes from the 1980s looked, having had a 1983 Raleigh Grand Prix (hers were stem shifters) myself back in the day.  There are good reasons I gave her up for Kermit: she was heavy, had too few gears to choose from, and there was little more I could do to make her modern. I don't want to repeat that experience. I want something I can ride.

When I walked into Wheelfine with Rowlf aloft, Michael looked at it as if I was bringing in the daily paper. If you know Michael, you'll know what I mean.

"This is in great shape for 30 years old," he said, and began musing about touching up the paint. "I have this color," he said, because of course he does. "It's called Candy Apple Red." He pulled out some polish and showed me how to shine the chrome.

He put it up on the stand to measure the dropouts: 128 mm. We'll need to do some cold-working to stretch that to 130 mm.  That's fine with me; we'll be able to check the alignment at the same time.

He found a pair of wheels so that we could check the stand-over height. Despite the seat tube being 2 cm longer than that of my other frames (the top tube is the same as the rest), the height was perfect.

Michael rested the bike against a work bench.  "You'll want silver, right?" Definitely.

This frame was an open book. I did my best to keep us focused on one thing at a time, which wasn't easy, and I wasn't exactly successful.

To get started, we had to decide what I'd use this bike for.  Rowlf is heavy. "I'm not going to climb with it, that's for sure," I said. I have Miss Piggy for the tough stuff. Kermit and Beaker can handle the Sourlands.  "I'll use it for the in-between seasons -- spring and fall -- and maybe for centuries if it's comfortable enough."  And commuting. I forgot to say commuting.

After much jumping from subject to subject, looking at a bike or two in the store, weighing rims, and consulting catalogs, Michael gave me this advice:

1. Don't buy components one at a time; buy a group that I know works together;

2. Forget about down-tube shifting. The shifters in my pocket have too narrow a range to cover more than 8 speeds, and integrated shifters existed in the 1980s anyway;

3. Come back in my bike clothes to test-ride Campy Athena and Veloce;

4. Once I decide, he can get me a new grouppo, a headset, bottom bracket, and cranks, and he'll install the parts I don't have tools for; and,

5. "Now, here's how I want you to lace the wheels: The pulling spokes go on the inside." He marked the hub and the rim so that I'd know where to lace the first spoke. He'd already assembled the necessary parts (including cutting and threading spokes on a jig). When I started asking questions, because the pattern differed from what I'd done before, I guess he figured it would be easier for both of us if I laced the wheel right then and there. He didn't seem annoyed, though. I think he might have been having fun.

He cleared some space in the back and set me up. He gave instructions, walked away, came back, gave more instructions, corrected my hand position, left again, and before I knew it (there's a time warp in there), I'd laced the rear wheel.  I was thoroughly enjoying this. (Wait'll you have to make it round, sister.)

 "Now, do the same for the front."

"If I can remember what I did."  It all happened so fast.

I could have left the frame with Michael, but I wanted to take it home and show it off to people, to get their opinions, to take my time. My goal is to ride this bike on my 50th birthday, in mid-May. I can get it together by then.

There was just enough time for me to bring everything into the house, eat some lunch, change my clothes, and get Kermit ready for the afternoon ride.

Sean would be the next person to look at Rowlf. He agreed about the shifters, having outfitted Purple Haze with Silver Shifters that can handle wider gear spacing. It's tricky, he warned me, because there's very little room between one gear and the next. He suggested I test-ride Purple Haze before deciding to go the down-tube route.

We had less than two hours before I had to be home again to clean off and fetch Pedro from the train station. There was a decent headwind (of course) but it was warm for January (almost 50 degrees). We looped over to Hopewell and back, stopping for pictures near sunset at the Pole Farm:

Sean got me home in time (we feared the Wrath of Jack).

After dinner and much wine in Hopewell (I had a whole half a glass, which gave me heartburn), we went back to the house so that Pedro could see Rowlf. Over the course of the next two hours, the cats played with the shipping box and Pedro announced, over and over again, "Old Record." There was to be, in his opinion, no new Athena nor Veloce, nor anything less than the best, and what did I need more than eight speeds for anyway? No down-tube shifters, either. While I agreed with him on the latter, I wasn't sure about the former.

"That wheel looks weird," he said.

"I'm not finished yet."

While he and Jack discussed what ridiculously expensive wine they'd buy with Pedro's tax return, I fetched the nipple driver and tightened the spokes.

"Better?"

"Better," he said.

The real finishing will come later, when my truing stand arrives.

*****

By 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning, the temperature had dropped to near freezing. I'd planned a route that would keep us close enough to home that we could bail if we were to get too cold.

Jim and Ed both had their heavy bikes. Jim even put fenders on the Krakow Monster. And here I was, with Miss Piggy, my lightest bike. If I went and fetched Gonzo instead, I'd never be able to keep up with them.

Jim and Ed each had their turn with Rowlf and with Jack before we headed north, with Pete, to Pennington.

There was much talk of snot en route.

Jim got a kick out of the empty parking lot at the official starting point. "I'm such a loser," I said. 

The booger banter continued all the way out of Pennington. I'm happy to say that I remember few of the dozen or so exchanges that would make any sense at all out of context; and since the context lasted nearly ten miles, I think it would be best for all involved if I simply left the mucous musings to your collective imaginations. 

I asked Jim for his opinion about how to outfit Rowlf. He's all for down-tube shifters, having a well-functioning set on the Krakow Monster.

Our route crossed over the Sourland Mountain twice. Here's a view from near the top of Runyon Mill, looking north:

Halfway down the hill, Jim stopped. A hot air balloon drifted east of us:

My hands suddenly froze. I wasn't the only one to sense that the air on the north side of the mountain was definitely colder. I'd packed two sets of gloves, so I switched over to the lobster claws. That did the trick.

Climbing Lindbergh didn't warm up my feet, though (I had wool socks, to warmers, and booties, but I'd stupidly foregone my winter shoes). I wiggled my toes all the way into Hopewell. I carry a spare set of warmers. At our rest stop at the Brick Farm Market, I shoved them between my booties and the tops of my shoes. That worked well enough.

Ed disappeared into the market, emerging with his hands full of meat, cheese, and a monster loaf of bread. It would be Jim's task to carry it home in Ed'd pannier. How they got it all to fit I'll never know.  If the load slowed Jim down even a little, we'll never know.

We were all cold before we got to Province Line. Afterwards, not so much.

There were sheep on Bayberry that I had to stop for:

As we entered Pennington again, one of our number began to sing a song about snot, to the tune of "O Tannenbaum," that he made up on the spot. What is it about Pennington that brings out the boogers?  I think the higher-functioning parts of our brains were frozen.

Pete peeled off for home, and then the snow began. We'd only expected flurries, which is what we were riding through. At first.

We got home well before the snow, now coming down at a pace that warranted attention, began to stick.

*****

So, for those of you who have read this far and have an opinion about how to set up a vintage frame in a fashion that looks old but isn't a chore to ride, feel free to leave a comment or email me. As of this moment, I'm all for ditching the down-tube shifting idea. Which Campy components I use, well, I have no idea. Everything I own is Shimano.