Roy's, Wrenching, and Recovery

February. 

21 February 2016

People come out of the woodwork when I announce that I'm going to go easy on them. Yesterday, ten riders showed up for a flat 40-45 mile trip to Roy's from Mercer County Park. Seven of them were Hill Slugs and members of Tom's Insane Bike Posse. Three were Freewheelers I'd never met before, or, if I had, I didn't remember them.

I left my house on Kermit. Snakehead was on the Love Child. Plain Jim was hauling the Krakow Monster. Pete, who refuses to fetishize his bicycles, was riding a nameless carbon Cannondale.

Tom had created the route and sent it to me with the proviso that he had the right to change it at any time. He did, within the first mile. We went down the stretch of Line Road that has been closed to traffic for as long as I've been in the club. I pass through there less and less frequently, and when I do, there's less and less road left.  It'll be single-track soon enough. We'll be able to tell how long people have been riding by how wide they remember Line Road used to be.

When we got back onto the cue sheet, we had a handful of extra miles.  Nobody cared. We'd had a tailwind half the time (!), and the temperature was a good 45 degrees warmer than it had been a week ago.

Walnford Mill, 20 or 28 miles in:

We did get to Roy's eventually, at 37 miles (29 for the smart folks who started from the park).  There, we partook in the ritual Sharing of Laura's Muffin Stump, which we had to explain to the three newcomers.

After the break, we started to get spread out. On the northern side of the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area, Tom and I decided that we should probably shave off a few miles. We did, and, by sheer luck, arrived back at the park with exactly 45 miles (53 for us loonies).

Windsor Road:

We pulled into my neighborhood with just under 62 miles.  I couldn't let that stand, and did a few laps around the block until I had a metric century. Jim was beat. I told him that hauling the Monster around with a pannier on one side did him no favors in the wind. "You'll get back on the Yellow Maserati and kick all of our asses."

After doing my best not to eat anything that wasn't nailed down, I set about taking care of the pile of bike work that had to be done.

First up, Grover's new tires. I'm allergic to rubber, and these new tires are nothing but. The tubes, being Slime tubes, are heavy rubber too. I have to wear glove liners and gloves when I get near this stuff. I figured I was in for a long afternoon; my mountain bike rims are a three-lever job. I got lucky, though, because the new tires went on easily. The room stank from rubber, though. Having rested the wheels on my legs, my pants were probably impregnated too. I tossed them in the wash.

Next up, Gonzo's front end. My goal was to move the shifters up on the bars to where they ought to have been in the first place, and then to tackle the problem of the rattling headset.

After a bout on the stationary trainer during the big snowstorm, the center bolt had come loose. I'd tightened it again, but when I was bringing the bike to the front door before a ride a week later, I felt the fork drop. One of the narrow lock nuts was loose. I don't have a skinny crescent wrench to fit it, so I'd used a vise grip instead. I tightened things down to a small wiggle. I'd later consulted Jim, of course, who suggested a round of treatment.

Moving shifters means re-taping. While Jack watched "Father of the Bride" with Spencer Tracy and Elizabeth Taylor, I made a mess of old tape and miscellaneous trash on the floor. I listened to the movie while I worked. The plot wasn't the least bit interesting. It was about as captivating as a blog post about bar tape. I decided that I needed to finish my job before the movie was over, which I just about did.

I couldn't fix the headset. It stayed loose while my hamstrings tightened up.

What I needed was a recovery ride and a trip to Hart's. I asked Jim, Ed, and Sean if they wanted to mosey up to Boro Bean in Hopewell on Sunday. Jim was in. After some back and forth about the bolts, he said he'd stop by early to take a look. Failing that, Hart's would open at noon. I knew he wouldn't mind in the least swinging by the shop if we had to.

Jack was giving a talk near Red Bank on Sunday, so we were up early enough to get him to a train. My legs were sore.  Today's ride was going to hurt.

Jim took a look at Gonzo, loosening and tightening the same parts I'd loosened and tightened the night before. The wiggle remained. He assured me that I wouldn't break the bike or my face by riding Gonzo in this condition, so off we went.

I didn't have much of a plan in mind. I figured I'd follow the old Friday night C+ route (is that a thing anymore?) and break off from it on Carter Road for Hopewell.

"Cows!" Jim called out on Van Kirk Road.

When we approached the intersection of Province Line and Rosedale, I asked if he'd ever seen the old bridge over the closed section of Province Line. He hadn't. I hadn't been there in many years either.

The last time I was here, the bridge was full of holes and plywood patches. We'd crossed it gingerly. I expected a dangerous mess when we rounded the corner. That's not what we saw. I don't know when the D&R Greenway bought the land around the bridge and restored it, but they did a good job.

We continued along the road as far as we could go before we hit the end of this section of Province Line. At the top of the hill are a few hundred yards of mud, a barrier of boulders, and the continuation of Province Line to Cherry Valley Road.

We doubled back to Cleveland and made our way up Carter to Crusher Road. From the top, in the winter, one can see down to Hopewell Valley:

We tooled around the back streets of Hopewell. This was the train station:

A chocolate factory, once upon a time:

We spent a while at Boro Bean, where we drank coffee and met Charlemagne.

We caught sight of one of yesterdays newcomers, Andy, who joined us for a while.  By now it was late enough that we could get to Hart's shortly after they opened. On the way, I had a flat. I'm going for one per weekend, apparently.

Pete was working on a rear derailleur when we walked in.  "People work out on these compu-trainers," he said. "They get get sweat and sports drink all over the place. It's a mess."

Speaking of which. "I had this on the trainer," I explained, and showed him the wobble.  Five minutes and two simultaneous skinny wrenches later, everything was tight again. "Keep an eye on it," he suggested.

I'm convinced that the best way to figure out what might go wrong with a bike is to put it on a stationary trainer and hammer in the big ring. Last year I killed a rear hub and bottom bracket. This season I've worked a headset loose. Jim is convinced that Gonzo is indestructible. I'm not so sure. In 2017 I might just snap the frame.  Gonzo is the only one I'll subject to that kind of torture. I care too much about the rest of my fleet.