Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, April 2, 2016

2 April 2016

THE RIDE IS CANCELED. As of 7:00 a.m., radar is showing rain approaching. 

1 April 2016

THE RIDE IS ON WITH A DELAYED START. Meet at 10:30 a.m. The route length can be shortened depending on the consensus of the group. When I wrote 52 miles yesterday, that included the extra 11 from my house. The route from Pennington is about 40 miles.

31 March 2016

Saturday might be a wash. Sunday looks to be dangerously windy.

Let's pretend that things will change by Saturday morning, and that we'll be able to get a 52-mile ride in. We'll start at 9:00 a.m. from the usual spot, the Hopewell Valley school administration building at 425 S Main St, across from Ingleside, in Pennington.  Extra-milers can meet me at my house at 8:30; please contact me ahead of time for that.

Check back here Friday evening for updates. 

Not an Espresso Egg Ride

D&R Canal at Trenton Country Club

27 March 2016

I was lying on my bedroom floor, still in my bike clothes, stretching my back, when John K sent me a Facebook post.

"Hell yeah," I replied.  "But slow. 68 in the hills today doesn't leave me with Sunday legs."

I stripped Gonzo of his lights (he's my wet road commuting bike now), dug out my cable lock from 1983, and met John at his house at 9:00 a.m. on Sunday morning.

This was the first time I'd taken a road bike onto the towpath. I was sure I'd skid or get a flat or both. I didn't; the stretch from Ewing into Trenton is mostly hard-packed dirt and fine gravel.

When we got to Parkside Avenue, I stopped to get a better picture of the canal over the road, and of the railing on the bridge.

If you zoom in here, above the bridge you can see three old mansions.

We took the same route as last time, leaving the towpath near the courthouses. Being Easter Sunday, there streets were mostly deserted.

At the arena, we rode up onto the plaza to get a closer look at the Roebling wire rope machine.

John is almost a regular at the Trenton Coffee House. A heavily tattooed twenty-something greeted us outside, welcoming us back.

"We're here for the espresso chocolates!" John said.

"He doesn't have any," the fellow said. "He couldn't get his hands on the shells."

"Aw, man!" I said.

As we locked up, we mused about Easter. "It's the day some creature rises out of the ground and delivers jelly beans to all the first world kids, isn't it?" I asked. John added that, like Christmas, it's another appropriated pagan holiday. For atheists like me, Easter means nothing at all but the symbolic start of spring and an excuse to eat egg-shaped candy.

Inside, upstairs, Abdul was apologetic.  "I overpromised," he said. "I went to Princeton, to Thomas Sweet and Lindt. They didn't have any shells."

"Next year," John said.

"Hey," I offered. "We don't need a fake holiday for chocolate espresso eggs. You can make them any time."

As Abdul prepared our coffee, I wondered aloud how one would eat an espresso egg without making a complete mess. "It's like eating a soup dumpling, I guess," I said. Nobody else had an answer. I suppose we'll never know.

While we were drinking, the space began to fill with tattooed and pierced twenty-somethings. We felt old, but we didn't feel uncool.

Abdul came by and placed a dish in front of us.  "Apology nuts," he explained.

They were good.

On our way out, I bought a pound of beans. It took some creative shoving, but we got the bag into one of my pockets.

Rather than retrace our path, we decided to continue up South Broad Street to the Trenton War Memorial. I've never seen it close up before.

Next, we went looking for the canal. The trick is, we discovered, to look for painted cement bridges and Belgian block crosswalks.

The path weaves back and forth across roads and bridges. On one, I could see down to the canal beneath my feet:

Sometimes the path is little more than a few feet wide, snaking between buildings. We followed signs when we could find them.

This yard, adjacent to the path, was, well, interesting:

Curious about the Greenway, we followed it.

But not for long. Under a bridge, a massive tree trunk was set across the path to prevent anyone from going any further. On the other side was another D&R Canal State Park sign, and then the path turned to grass.

I spent a lot of time looking ten feet in front of me, wary of puncturing my tires. So when John said, "There's a cool yard back there. I'm gonna go check it out," I had no idea what he was talking about. I took a few pictures while I waited.

This is what he was looking at (he posted it online later and I swiped it):

While he was looking at that, I was looking at this:

As I stood looking at the abandoned house, the scent of coffee wafted up. It took me more than a few seconds to realize that the smell was coming from the bag in my pocket. The beans were roasted this morning.

Straddling the Ewing-Trenton border is the Trenton Country Club:

The last thing we had to do was climb the mile-long hill on Scenic Drive from Route 29 to John's house. It doesn't look like much at first, but it's a real hill. John figures that one could do ten intervals up and down this hill during the week and be in great shape. "Ten?"  I said. "I was thinking more like three."

Before I went home, I spent some time in John's garage, looking at his collection of Campy-outfitted Serottas.

I'm moving very slowly with Rowlf's construction. My most recent quandary was brake cable routing. It's less than obvious to a newbie like me, and the instructions that come with the components have drawings that are less than helpful. By looking at John's collection, though, all of which have down tube shifters, I was able to feel where the cable comes out of the grip and confirm my suspicion that the tiny hole on the grip somehow meets up with the cable end insert on the brake lever. I was going to have to blindly poke the cable around until it found the exit.  When I got home, that's what I did, and now I feel slightly less derpy, except that I forgot to grease the screws for the brakes and derailleurs, so now I'm going to have to back all of those out, lube them, and put them back in. It's a good thing I'm not doing this for a living.

Not a Chocolate Bunny Ride

Manners Road

26 March 2016

The Chocolate Bunny Ride is no more. That didn't stop us from riding today, of course. Tom gathered the Insane Bike Posse to travel from Rocky Hill to Flemington. The route was one of two to Factory Fuel that I'd come up with two weekends ago. Since none of my regulars made the ride last week, today felt like the real thing after last week's trial run.

The temperature was still in the high 30s when I left the house, covering the same route I'd taken four times this week already. Adding the dozen miles in each direction to the distance Tom would cover would give me more than a metric century. I took my time getting into Rocky Hill.

Tom and I often get more people on our unofficial rides than on our official ones. Today he had nine, once we scooped up John K from the wrong parking lot. 

We lost one rider on Hollow Road; he hasn't been on his bike much this season.

Tom had tweaked my route so that we'd pass through Neshanic Station. I hung back to take a picture of the guys crossing the bridge.

We came into Flemington on River Road. This is the first time I've noticed the spillway on the Raritan River at Rockafellows Mill Road. From this direction I've always turned onto the bridge, looking ahead for the gravel. I don't think I've been here before the leaves have come out either. So, I stopped for the little waterfall:

At Factory Fuel:

On Barley Sheaf, I got a picture of what planners would call "the built environment" while Tom removed a shredded bootie.

Across the street was extreme deer browse:

I hung back on Manners Road, too.

I caught up to Tom at the bottom of the first roller. He got a good picture of the guys cresting the hill. By the time I was ready for a shot, a car was in view, and by the time it was gone, so was the best opportunity. I think we're both feeling compelled to get good pictures for the Freewheel now that I've asked him, Jim, and a few others for contributions.

The alpacas at Candlelight Farm were in the front pasture today. Jim said he has to up his game now that he's been selected as a Freewheel photographer, but he let me be the one to commune with the critters today.

Years ago, I co-led several annual Halloween rides that we dubbed the Chocolate Eyeball Ride. One of the more memorable ones included a black goat at the top of Lindbergh/Province Line. John D saw it then; I think I didn't. I've always looked for it since, with no luck, which adds to the spookiness.

The Chocolate Bunny Ride never came this way over Lindbergh. The Chocolate Bunny Ride is, however, cursed. Today's ride was Not a Chocolate Bunny Ride. It might be cursed, however, because, at the top of Lindbergh, staring at me intently, was the black goat. I talked to him while I focused. He never took his eyes off me.

I moved on. This is the southern view from the top of the Sourland Mountain at Province Line Road:

At the bottom, Pete split off for home. Snakehead's electronic shifter battery was running low. He and John K turned east on 518 while the rest of us, now down to five (me, Tom, Chris, Jim and Winter Larry), continued on Province Line to Bedens Brook.

We turned north on the Great Road and east on 518. Somewhere beyond Cherry Hill Road, Chris and I realized we were by ourselves. We waited a while, with time enough to remove yet another layer and find a pocket. Eventually another rider came by and I asked him if he'd seen the rest of our group. He told us there was a flat tire, and  a few minutes later the three of them appeared. "I caught a piece of steel," Jim explained while we waited at 206 for the light to change.

I blame the dead batteries and the flat tire on the goat.

This was Not a Chocolate Bunny Ride. I did not hand out chocolate bunnies.

I handed out chocolate eggs instead.

Cold Wind, Hot Coffee, and Alpacas

Candlelight Farm Alpacas

19 March 2016

None of my regulars contacted me yesterday. I guess I'm biking up to Pennington on my own. There was that one guy who didn't bother to read the blog and emailed me for details instead. I sent him back to the blog. It might end up being the two of us. That'll be weird.

There's a headwind out of the north. That's good. We'll get pushed home, if we survive Flemington.

Two cars are in the parking lot at the ride start.

"Heyyyyyy!" I haven't seen Linda in years. She's got her Seven today, not her usual IndyFab. Andrew is here again. 

Bob drives in, apologetic. "Take your time. We're chill."

Carl drives in, apologetic. "I went to the wrong place," he says.  

"I put the address in the blog," I grin. "Take your time." 

There's plenty to yammer on about while we're waiting. Bob has snazzy shoes that are shoes and booties in one piece. Andrew prefers to go low-tech with plastic wrap over the toe box. Linda digs for warmer gear. Carl can't find his lighter gloves; he's stuck with steamy lobster claws. I'm toasty in my half-wool Wheelfine jersey under the same winter jacket I've been wearing since 2000.

Yesterday evening I pored over online maps to make sure I could get us in and out of Flemington safely and under 50 miles. It was easier than I thought it would be. We should come in around 42 miles. If it weren't near freezing and cloudy, that wouldn't be far enough.

I have a hand-written cue sheet, as always. Linda's Garmin is on the fritz. We push off, north out of Pennington straight up Pennington-Rocky Hill to Hopewell-Princeton Road. 

Carl is having derailleur trouble and he's not dressed warmly enough. He turns back. He'll have ten miles anyway.

Linda and I have been talking almost the whole time, catching up. We can't figure out the last time we rode together. I think it was at least two years ago, when a group of us came across her as she was doing a late solo ride.  It was long enough ago that I had two fewer bikes than I do now, and Miss Piggy was still a problem child.

We talk all the way up Greenwood and down Rileyville. I'm pretty sure this is the only way one can go up and over the mountain without turning.*

At the bottom, I flip my cue sheet early. "We've got one more set of hills on Bad Manners Road. There's an alpaca farm at the top. I haven't seen any there for years. There's still a sign there, though. A few years ago, Cheryl and I were < ahref="http://perpetualheadwinds.blogspot.com/search?q=alpacas" target="_blank" title="Alpacas and a Bike that Works">talking to the alpacas

. I haven't seen them there since. The bottom fell out of the market."

We turn left on Wertsville. Linda and I are still talking when, ahead of us, Andrew passes Van Lieus. Van Lieus?  Wait a minute. We're going the wrong way.

I'm certain of the order of roads that cross the mountain. I'm terrible at remembering where the roads come in on the opposite side of Wertsville. If we just passed Van Lieus, the next road up is going to be Back Brook, I think.

From behind, Bob asks, "What happened to Manners?"

"I made a wrong turn. We'll catch it on the way home." By saying that, I've blown my cue sheet to bits.

Back Brook isn't the next one. Dutch is. Back Brook intersects with Dutch. I suck at this. We turn on Dutch, which, I'm reasonably sure, intersects with Old York. Lord knows how many miles I'm adding at this point.

We turn right on Old York. We could cross 202 instead, but, from there, I'd have to navigate through Flemington on roads I haven't committed to memory. Old York is on my cue sheet for the return trip; I'll do the route in reverse from here.

I'm looking for Reaville, which is much farther east than I'd hoped; we pass Van Lieus on its northern end.

There it is. I flip the cue sheet so that I can read it backwards, but from here I have a solid mental picture.

Reaville rolls. Remember that. I think we're going in the easy direction, or maybe I'm just relieved that I know where I'm headed again.

I've only been through Flemington once before, back in 2013 or so, when I led a Hunterdon Land Trust ride from Dvoor Farm on the Route 12/523 traffic circle (yikes) to Round Valley. Now we're coming at Flemington from the east at the only intersection I could find that gets us across Route 31 with a light. 

There's traffic, but not much and the lights are working for us. Flemington has some way cool Victorian-style houses. I should take some pictures someday.**

There's a winter farmers market going on today next to Factory Fuel.

Inside, we're inside what used to be the Stangl Pottery factory. There's seating in the kiln. Andrew suggests we sit near the door to keep an eye on the bikes. The coffee is good. The pastries are made on site. I buy two small bunny cookies to take home.

Andrew disappears and comes back from the farmers market with a cup of soup. We talk about food that should never be consumed during a bike ride. We talk about goofy road names in Hunterdon County. We're clearly not in a hurry to get moving again. My muffin stump goes uneaten.

Linda vanishes for a while. Bob disappears. I explore the market. Lots of meat. Farmers markets are kind of bleak for vegetarians in the winter. I go back to the coffee shop. Bob is back with a cup of chili and an extra spoon.

Now the hard part: getting started again. This is the shivery part. The cloud cover is heavier than before. The sky looks gunmetal gray. We're supposed to get some snow tomorrow, the first day of spring. This happened last year too.

Once we get past Route 31 and turn north onto Royal, we're out of town. I'm amused at how we went from urban to rural in one intersection. Once we cross over River Road, I know where we are and don't need the cue sheet.

I have to take a picture of the Raritan, of course, because I don't have a picture of the Raritan at this exact spot (lord help me) yet.

Barley Sheaf feels downhill-ish, except for the short inclines that, if we didn't have a tailwind and weren't cold, would be really annoying.

"Bad Manners?" Bob asks as we turn onto Amwell.

The tailwind helps. From the top of the first hill we can see to the second. "The alpaca farm is at the top of the next one," I tell Bob. "But I don't see any fuzzy bumps from here."

We stop at the top anyway. I don't see any animals. I might as well take some pictures though. I should get some of people on bikes for the Freewheel, I suppose. I usually wait until humans are out of the frame.

"Go ahead," I tell Andrew and Bob, but Andrew is looking at something in the field. I follow his gaze.

Alpacas!

"Sorry guys. I gotta get some pictures."  I have to show Sean that there are alpacas up here after all. When he first moved to New Jersey, I took him up here to see them and there weren't any. He hasn't let me forget it since.

I must be getting hungry. These trees look like cuberdons.

When we get to Wertsville again, I know which way to turn. We're going sideways up the mountain, old Hill Slug style: Rileyville to Saddle Shop to Runyon Mill to Orchard to Linvale.

"If you want, we could keep going straight to the top here and take the dirt road down Stony Brook."

Nobody wants. We turn on Orchard.

Where Stony Brook meets 654, Andrew peels off for home. We're down to three.

I spend too much time talking in the parking lot in Pennington. My fingers are cold when I push off again.

I'm almost at the Hopewell border when I see a rider on the other side of the road. I get ready to do my usual raised-finger greeting when I see he looks familiar. Sean cuts across the road as I pull over.

He says, "Did I miss the ride start?"

"By a couple of hours. Hey!  The alpacas are back!"

"Manners Road?"

"Yeah!"

"I'm headed that way."

"Then Rainbow Hill?"

"Yep."

"Ouch."

"Then Lindbergh."

"Ouch." Now I feel like a slouch.

"Then Province Line."

"Ouch." A serious slouch.

"Hey," he says, looking at my odometer. "You're good for another fifty."

"I'm hungry. I wanna go home and eat pasta."

"I'd better go before it rains."

"You'll have a tailwind coming home."

Now my fingers are hurting. It's raw out here.

I need to eat a real lunch, but first I need to check on the bunnies.

I'm looking at tomorrow's forecast, wondering if I can get a short ride in before the rain (not snow) starts. The air will be warming up when the rain comes in. That's a recipe for ice. I know better than to mess with that.

See you next week.



*This is true if one doesn't include the dirt stretch on Stony Brook, which isn't exactly directly across from Runyon Mill, or that there's technically a sort of turn where Hopewell-Amwell Road meets Province Line. Neither of these things occurred to me at the time. Still, Greenwood/Rileyville the closest thing to a straight shot south to north over the Sourland Mountain.

**Seriously, I should. I spent the last five minutes searching online and came up empty.

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, 19 March

17 March 2016


*Sigh.* Saturday looks like winter again. Let's not even mention Sunday.


On Saturday, we'll start at 10:00 from the Hopewell Valley Regional School District Building parking lot, 425 S Main St, across from Ingleside, in Pennington. 


The plan is to visit a new coffee house in Flemington. I think I can get us there and back in under 50 miles. Anyone who wants to add 11 miles to that can meet me at my house for a 9:30 start. Contact me if you want the extra miles.

Early Spring is Early

Red maple says, "Spring, for real this time."

13 March 2016

Spring started to happen a couple of weeks ago. The daffodils were the first ones to poke up from under the leaves I never rake away from the flower beds.

Next to the driveway, this little snowdrop is always the first one out.

Taking pictures of signs of life is something I do at the beginning of spring each year. I'm going to need these pictures, because I'm going to need something to use for the March Freewheel next year.

The Freewheel. The bloody Freewheel.

It has consumed my life, welded my tush to the chair in front of my computer, eaten away at hours, been nearly finished a dozen times, tweaked, aligned, expanded, shrunk, denuded of clip-art, removed of serifs. It awaits the one piece that will either complete it or kill me: the April ride list.

Meanwhile, we have moved our clocks forward and crocuses have bloomed.

Maples and forsythia, too, out in the flatlands.

Tom took a handful of us into the coastal plain yesterday, and today, after a late night out, 6 hours of sleep, and a lot more caffeine than usual, Larry dragged me out there again today.

I'm coming up for air after a couple more hours in front of the Freewheel. I'd write more, but my brain is empty.

I leave you with a daffodil,

and with the word "spork," because I decided on today's ride that "spork" doesn't get said enough.

I need a nap.