Mud and Rivets, Sunday Cows

Vintage Paint for a Vintage Frame

1 March 2016

I have a bike to build. Michael finished Rowlf's touch-ups, installed the headset, bottom bracket and cranks, and put the cassette on. I don't have the tools for those installations.  On Fridays, he's open until 7:00. I was hoping to get out there before 6:00, but my job being what it is, I arrived at 6:45. I figured that would be enough time to pick up the frame, pay for the parts, and get out before closing.

Right.  

That's not how time works up at Wheelfine.

We measured the seatpost height and he cut it down to fit the frame.  He told stories.We swapped stems. He told stories. He double-checked the bar width against my shoulders. He told stories. When I took the bike and box of parts out to the car, he followed, telling stories. I left at 8:15.

The astute eye might notice a lack of bottle cage rivets on the seat tube. Michael had said he could tap two more holes, but it was late and I didn't want to risk damaging the frame.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized how much I depend on two water bottles during long, summer rides.

On Saturday morning, I filled my Camelbak and took Grover, the mountain bike, on the road to the Brearley House for a canal towpath ride with Pete and Chris. Grover has no bottle cages; water bottles and mud don't play well together. This is the only time I wear water on my back. It's not something I'd want to do in the heat of the summer.

Chris had his dual suspension mountain bike, Tigger ("The tail is made of springs!"). On the seat post, facing backwards, is a clamp-on bottle cage. I don't have enough room for that and a saddle bag on Rowlf.  I wouldn't try clamping anything to the frame, either: the Master tubing is not round anywhere.  "Pop rivets," Chris said, and I knew that's what I'd end up doing.

The towpath was still flooded from Tuesday's rain. Some sections near the Stony Brook were washed out. We got muddy early.

Several times we had to walk around fallen trees. In Kingston, a puddle was speckled with dying fish. I'd have considered tossing them back into the canal, but I couldn't even see the canal from where we were.  "They'll be food for some bird," I said, and we moved on.

Rocky Hill was ten miles, and we turned around. I took pictures on the return trip.

Kingston:

Carnegie Lake north of Princeton: 

The canal (brown) over the Millstone River (blue):

The Millstone River:

In Lawrence Township, where the path was one long puddle, we rode on the grass berm:

The Lawrence-Hopewell Trail between the canal and the Brearley House:

Grover, before I toweled him down:

The it was back up to Wheelfine.

Michael grabbed a couple of spare bottle cages to get the positioning right for the new holes:

Then he flipped the frame upside-down and clamped in a home-made (of course) bottle cage drill guide (he has several, naturally):

He checked that the drill and bit would fit between the tubes in the frame:

Then I held the frame and work stand steady while he drilled the initial holes. He followed with the rivets, and then touched up the paint where it had chipped a little:

Ta-da!

As I carried Rowlf out of the store, I told Michael, "I'll be in touch when I get into trouble."

"I think you know what you're doing," he replied.

"I don't think so,"  I'm still spooked by cables and derailleurs, and I'm sure I'll screw up the chain length.

How I got out of there in under two hours I can only credit to a space-time hiccup. I got back to the house in time to upload the day's pictures before Jack and I headed out to fetch Pedro from the Trenton train station. We got to Lambertville early. This is the Delaware River from near the Porkyard:

Pedro and I can talk bikes. Pedro and Jack can talk wine. Jack does not try to talk bikes. I try to talk wine. I'm better at photographing it than drinking it, which works out well, because I'm the only one of the three of us with a driver's license.

(OK, so the big glass is water, and I never did finish what was in the small glass.)

I'd been counting on a late night, which was one of many reasons that I did not want to get up early for Cranbury on Sunday morning. My plan instead was to take Miss Piggy into the hills, solo if I had to. When I announced my intentions online, I was surprised at the response.

Pete and Jim met me at my house. We rolled out at 10:00, dressed for a late spring day. We picked up the Jerry F, John K, Paul I ("I'm afraid of you," I said when he introduced himself), and Steve T ("You, too," I added).

I didn't have a specific route in mind. Our destination was Lambertville. Had I not needed to shed my vest, I'd have had room to take a bag of Rojo's beans home with me.  (Yes, Jim, you had your pannier, but I had my pride.)

The fastboys made me work harder than I usually do.  We stuck together, though, and they even allowed me to take pictures at Mount Airy:

The owner of the farm was outside. "Are these dairy or beef cattle?" I asked.  "Beef," he said. "Hamburger." He has about 25 of them now. "There will be calves soon," he added.

Hamburger munching on hay:

A small hamburger:

Alexauken Creek, where Paul asked me to take a picture of him. "Evidence that you can ride slow?" I asked.  The PennEast pipeline would cross this stream numerous times.  Just saying.

We're used to Saturday Rojo's crowds. This time, we didn't have to wander around looking for a table.

On our way back, Steve asked me how many feet of elevation gain I'd planned. I had no idea, and dislike the question with the same disgust I used to feel when people in high school used to ask me what score I got on the latest exam.  "I dunno, " I said, seeing the GPS on his stem. "Ask fucking Strava."  Poor Steve. He doesn't know how much I disrespect Strava. He also didn't know that there would be hills between Pennington and Lambertville. Not that it slowed him down any.

Pete suggested we go down Woodens Lane. I'd always known it as a dirt road, so I never bothered to go near it. I didn't know it had been paved. I ceded the leader role to Pete, and down we went.

Woodens runs parallel, more or less, to Goat Hill. As I descended, there were two thoughts in my head:  this is pretty; and this would be a bitch to climb, maybe.

We gathered at the bottom. Jim said I had an evil look in my eye. I said, "You know we're going to have to climb this." A few in the group already had and lived to tell about it.  Sigh.  I have a reputation to project protect.

Back on Pleasant Valley, we were short on miles, so I diverted the group onto Pleasant Valley-Harbourton Road, what Cheryl and I call the Sucker's Shortcut. (It was a hot day, years ago, before either of us had climbing gears or the patience to deal with the rest of Pleasant Valley. We peeled off from the group, and, as we turned, one of us shouted, "See ya, suckers!")

I got the group back to Pennington with about 40 miles. Jerry and I jawed on about county roads and bike lanes and activism and municipal politics while Jim circled like a polite raptor. Eventually we got the hint, and Jim and I headed for home.

This was waiting for me next to the driveway:

One more thing: a week from now, I'll be appointed as the new Freewheel editor. Yay.