Stay Warm. Stay Caffeinated.

Ice Floes, Delaware River from D&R Canal Towpath, Ewing

14 February 2015

It's a Hallmark holiday, or as we call it around here, Sunday.  It's minus a bajillion degrees out. It's past 8:30 a.m. and I'm still in bed. I'm looking forward to breakfast, slow coffee, and a long bout with Gonzo on the stationary trainer, after which I'll probably pull apart his bar tape and move the brake levers up on the bars to where they should be. At some point, Jack and I will go food shopping. I should probably clean the house.

Right now, though, I'm going to check my email and Feedly and Facebook for the blooper reel of last night's GOP poo-fling and more prognostications about the Supreme Court. 

The first Facebook post I see is this, from John K:

4 degrees?
I have a half baked idea to take a bike ride down the canal path and through Trenton, to the Trenton Coffee House!
Is anyone else certifiably insane?
It IS sunny at least, and there will be coffee.

Well, hell, yeah. I respond:  I have half a mind to go with you.

John: That's a qualification! 

John:  Leave about 10 from my house because the temperature will DOUBLE! (from 4 to 8!)

John, after some private messaging back and forth: So, Bike Ride to the Trenton Roasters Coffee Shop is a thing! 11:15 from my house!

One of his friends: Your dedication is impressive. Stay warm.

Me: Our crazy is impressive. Stay caffeinated.

We'll be on the towpath for most of the route, which means its a Grover day. The Slime in the tubes is getting old and the valves are sticky. Sometimes they don't close all the way, and slowly lose air, so I tighten them as hard as I can before I wheel the mountain bike out to the car. 

I'm putting my helmet on when John rolls up on his old Serotta road bike. Uh-oh. "I'll never be able to keep up with you," I tell him. He's not concerned. Today's not about speed anyway. 

"Someone else is supposed to meet us down by Wilburtha," he says. "I forget his name. He texted me."

We start by descending towards the river on Scenic Drive. The wind is so cold it hurts my face. I'll enjoy pedaling up this hill much more than this. Crossing River Road is easy at this hour. From the towpath we can see chunks of ice moving downriver at an impressive clip. We're just south of Scudders Falls, where, John tells me, kayakers practice whitewater paddling.

It's warmer on the towpath; we're protected by trees. I stop for pictures at Upper Ferry Road.

Coming towards us is Ron M, the mysterious texter who, until this moment, hasn't met John face to face. Turns out they're both local boys, and as we bumble down the path towards the city, they point out the landmarks and who they know who lived or worked or went to school there. I've never been on this part of the canal. I'm just taking it all in.

Including this, where the canal runs above Parkway Road. It takes John pointing it out for me to realize that the normal state of things -- road over water -- is reversed.  Whoa. I've been too focused on the railing to look beyond it.

I stop once more for a picture, but it's so cold out that my camera battery has died. I don't bother with pulling out my cell phone.

When we leave the canal for the city streets, the temperature drops again, especially when we ride in the shade of the buildings on West State Street near the Capitol. I've been to some of these places before, like the county courthouse and the saloon across the street (for numerous land use battles and once for jury duty) and the county administration building (more land use stuff). We get a glimpse of the gold Captiol dome every so often. We pass the Mill Hill Playhouse. I know I've been there, but I can't remember why. Was it a concert or another site fight?

I try to keep track of where we are: State, Broad, Hudson, State again, and then, somehow, Cass Street.

John slows in front of a nondescript door with a tiny sign reading "Trenton Coffee House and Roaster." We lock our bikes and go in.

I want to buy some beans, but Ahmed explains that he wasn't able to roast any yesterday because the vent from the roaster to the outside let in so much cold air that it was messing up the temperature sensor. He'd need the two small bags he has left for today's customers.

"I can deliver," he says, but I know that he would deliver by bike. "I don't want to make you go all the way to Lawrence," I tell him. He doesn't seem to mind, but I don't give him my address. Instead, the three of us order pour-overs and wait as he meticulously prepares three cups. I do my best to talk the guys into drinking the coffee black; I succeed, mostly. Some sugar has found its way in to John's cup.

 John and Ron

The water in my Camelbak line froze early on because I forgot to blow into it early enough. Blow early, blow often. I go into the bathroom to run hot water over it until the line is defrosted.

When I emerge, John is eating something.

"What is that?"

"Toast. Artisanal toast."

Seriously.

We take our time. I go looking for a trash can and head to the front. Ahmed says, "If you want, you can take a bag. It's 1:00. I have enough for the rest of the day." He's closing at 3:00. He double-checks the grinder while I get the money. We start talking about bikes and frames. At the end of the conversation, I realize I haven't yet told him my name, so I do, and then we leave.

The camera has come back to life in time for me to get a picture of Ron's wacky, but eminently functional, bar mitts. "Bar mitzvah!" John says.

We retrace our steps back to the canal.  I feel myself dropping back and going sludgy. I look down and my rear tire is losing air.  "Guys!" I holler, and pull over. I'm assuming it's the valve again. All I have to do is pump some air in and get rolling again.

Nope. I guess Slime doesn't work below freezing. These are the Rims from Hell; even at Hart's it took Oscar three levers and 20 minutes to change a tube. It takes me longer than that, and there's no way I'm going to hold these guys back or freeze my fingers trying to change the tube. I try using Ron's CO2 as a desperate last measure. The air goes in and straight out again, we can't tell from where.

I could start walking, and I do, but that's too slow, and the rear wheel resists as I push the bike forward.

It's not that far back. I'm going to do the thing one is Not Ever To Do: ride home with a dead flat tire. I'm sure to kill the tire. If I'm lucky, I won't damage the rim. I shift into a low gear and spin.

Brrrr-UP! Brrrr-UP! Brrrr-UP!

What had been a leisurely ride has now become a workout. I'm going anaerobic. I'm glad for road crossings. Ron leaves us at Lower Ferry Road. I have to stop once more. John and I see it as a good place for a picture. He takes a selfie of us as I set up the shot.

The towpath appears level, but it's not. When you're dragging a dead tire, you feel every change in grade.

It occurs to me that these tires are now nine years old, which might have something to do with this mystery flat. Damaged or not, it's time to get a new set.

Brrrr-UP! Brrrr-UP! Brrrr-UP!

"I kinda like how that sounds," John says. I think it sounds like a sick frog.

Despite everything, I'm enjoying this ride. At the same time, though, I'm hoping that every turn in the path will be the one that has the bridge back to River Road. I might be dog tired, but at least I'm not cold.

Now there's the matter of climbing back up Scenic Drive. I just about have control of the rear wheel on the path. I'm hoping it'll be better on the blacktop, but I'm also worried about damaging the rim on a surface that doesn't give way.

I fishtail a bit on Route 29, take the turn onto Scenic Drive slowly, and start to spin like mad up the hill. The back end is having none of it. I dismount.

John, being a gentleman, dismounts too, and we walk the last mile up the hill, talking politics.

(The rear tire, now thoroughly tenderized, came off the rim with ease, its innards speckled with gobs of Slime. The tire died so that the rim -- still round and true -- should live.)