Everywhere and Nowhere

Etra Lake

23 April 2016

Exercise addition for me dictates that riding with a chance of getting wet is better than staying home and doing nothing, or scrambling for a bike in a crowded Saturday morning spin class.

When Tom canceled his ride today, I had every intention of hitting the road. I perused the ride list and landed on Chris and Ron's Tri-County Cruise.  Ron said he was canceling.  Chris asked, "Are you willing to ride wet?"

"Always," I wrote back.

It was another sad Saturday for Freewheelers on Facebook, but not for me. I left the house under a slight drizzle at 8:45. A strong tailwind pushed me to Allentown. I got there early and took shelter under the eaves at Reed Recreation Park.

Chris didn't see me there at first; he went all the way to Gordon Road before doubling back. We were the only two to show up for the ride.

Bands of drizzle were passing through from the northeast. Chris headed that way, retracing my steps.

We went everywhere and nowhere, talking about everything and nothing. Politics. The Freewheel. Money. Land use. The gas mileage of short-haul trucks.

We didn't get wet.

We stopped at a tiny Wawa in East Windsor. We turned onto Route 33 for a quarter mile and stopped in at the Bicycle Rack, where I talked to the owner about my Colnago and Waterford. He attempted to impress us with what he thought was an old bike in for repair: a ten year old Coppi. Aluminum, though, with tube welds that looked like used chewing gum. Pah. Chris and I spent some time looking at chain rings, then headed towards Etra Park to use the bathrooms.

True to a Chris ride, we hopped onto the little bike path on the east side of the lake, followed it until it ended, then doubled back onto the road towards the park.

I checked the radar again. "We're in between bands," I said, and plotted a route that would get both of us closer to home at once.

We took the bike path past the lake towards Etra Road. We stopped to chat with a woman who was fishing off of the little bridge at the foot of the lake. "You meet the best people out here," she said. I looked out at the lake, glassy, a kayaker in the distance, and understood why fishing like this could be so peaceful. Still, I don't have that kind of patience. And I don't eat fish. We moved on.

By the time we got to Windsor Road, Chris had devised a plan to cut a hole in my dining room floor for a trap-door wine cellar, freeing up room for all of my bikes. He went left and I went right, both of us into a drizzle.

At Mercer County Park, I faced a headwind and blue sky. I had nearly 52 miles when I got home. Not bad for a rainy Saturday.

Here's the route, as close as I can remember. It's so Chris.

Hillsborough to Califon, and Rowlf is Good to Go

What the end of a ride looks like.

18 April 2016

The delay in this post has been brought to you by the May Freewheel. We now resume our regular programming.

Saturday:

I dragged Plain Jim, Jack H, Pete, and Chris from Hillsborough to Califon. The route begins near the Raritan's South Branch, has its halfway mark on the South Branch, and ends in the South Branch watershed, yet covers 57 miles without following the river for more than 2 miles at a time. This is possible because the river makes a large U through Hunterdon County. Between the arms of the U is a pile of hills. That's where we were headed.

Tom wanted to join us, but the rear wheel of his climbing bike had other ideas. His Synapse gets the Miss Piggy award for the day because, aside from normal cable stretch*, the new Miss Piggy has been rock solid for six months. Even the benign clunk in her bottom bracket is gone now that warmer weather has expanded the metal bits. 

We started off cold. It didn't take long for us to start peeling the layers. Chris, who had a handle bar pack, said he'd charge us a dollar per ounce per mile to carry our stuff. He didn't make any money on Saturday. We all had big pockets.

I didn't take any pictures until we got to Mill Road above Route 22. The black lumps are sleeping calves.

We went up Rockaway Road, past our favorite house. I was hoping for a grand display of spring bulbs, but spring was starting late in Tewksbury. All that was there were daffodils. I didn't stop this time.

I've been on Rockaway during the early spring months before. Usually, though, it's high summer or early fall. I'd never noticed the farmhouse through the trees by the little bridge where Rockaway Road ends in Mountainville:

There are several evil hills one can choose to get from Mountainville to Califon. Seeing as it was only April, I chose one of the easier routes: Cokesbury-Califon Road to Mountain Grove to Hoffman's Crossing. If I'd had my bitch on, I'd have led the guys up Philhower instead. You're welcome, Slugs.

After a long stop at the general store -- it was crowded and Jim found himself waiting for 15 minutes, but we won't hold it against them -- we had a long slog out of the valley to the top of Guinea Hollow Road. From there to the bottom of Rockaway was the better part of six miles downhill.

I stopped on Guinea Hollow to talk to a grazing cat who was sharing a field with a pair of donkeys.

The Rockaway Creek on Guinea Hollow Road:

The old mill at the bottom of Rockaway Road:

Although we'd all done some climbing already this season, we've had a few weeks of bad weekend weather between then and now. Ten miles from the end, my legs were finished. I reminded myself that this exhaustion was a good thing, and then I got my second wind in time for the final few flat miles.

Sunday:

Gearhead nerd alert! You've been warned.

Sean pulled up at 2:00 on Purple Haze, and I rolled out on Rowlf for a 30-mile recovery ride. Rowlf hadn't needed a new stem after all. Michael had looked it over and given me the all-clear on Friday.

I confused myself on the Campy levers within a quarter mile of my house. We were on the slow, shallow ascent of Bear Tavern Road when I finally hit on the mnemonic for shifting with Campy: Go big or go home. As in, the big lever gives me the big rings and the thumb thingy drops the chain down again. I'm now certain to screw up shifting on all my bikes. This is what happens after almost 16 years with Shimano. I'm sure Sean got a kick out of my running commentary as I fumbled through the gears. 

The feel of the Colnago Saronni Master with the wheels built to Michael's specifications is a surprisingly stiff and quick ride for such a heavy steel bike. I wouldn't take Rowlf into the Sourlands, given that I have four better choices, all with MTB gearing. Nonetheless, Sean led us up Route 518 to Hopewell from Harbourton, and then out of the valley on Carter Road. Now that I look at the route, there was more than a little climbing involved.

For long, shallow slogs, Rowlf is pretty good. With 11 cogs between 11 and 28 teeth, I'm able to shift to match my cadence in a way that I can't when I have to jump from 11 to 34 in 9 steps.  I did the ride with tired legs and no caffeine. Maybe this will be my recovery machine. 

(* I know, Jim. The cables don't stretch; the housing settles. "Stretch" scans better. When it comes down to writing or wrenching, I know which one I'm better at.)

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, April 16

14 April 2016


Let's go to Califon.


Meet for a 9:00 a.m. start at Woodfield Park, at the Marshall Road entrance at the intersection with Amwell Road, in Hillsborough.


The route is 57 miles. If I can do it, you can do it.

A Typical Tom Ride

Ridge Road near Vincentown, NJ

10 April 2016

Spring has decided to crawl back into bed, bending my daffodils, confusing my tulips, and pissing off ride leaders who'd rather not be watching snow fall this time of year.

Jack H appeared for Tom's postponed ride.  That's one sure sign of spring.  The other sign is when Chris shaves off his winter beard. He wasn't with us today, so I can't say for sure that it's truly spring.

Anyway, Tom led me, Jack H, and Jim into the Pinelands today. We had headwinds no matter which direction we faced. What we didn't have, which we usually do when Tom and I get south of Fort Dix, is rain.

As we turned onto Burrs Mill, the guys debated whether or not they're old. Jim insisted that, at their age, he and Jack qualify. Jack refused such categorization.  He and Jim chased each other for the rest of the ride the way my cats chase each other through the house.

Once upon a time, I think I knew what these flowers are called. I think they're mustard flowers, and if not exactly mustard, then mustard-adjacent.

After a rest stop at the only Wawa left in central NJ that hasn't been renovated, we headed towards Arney's Mount. Tom's plan was to take Birmingham Road. As we turned onto it, the road closing signs began.

"It's not closed," Tom said, as we rode on and on. Then we rounded a curve.

Um.

"There's that beam over there," Tom suggested.

"Oh, hell no," I declared.

I took some pictures of the Rancocas Creek while Tom consulted his GPS.

"There's a bike path," he said. It would keep us off of Route 530, which would be a good thing.

The trail looked like an old rail bed. For about a mile, we rode in hard-packed sand.

Yep, old rail bed.

Too bad Snakehead wasn't with us. He'd have loved the sand.

Too bad I don't have the Hill Slugs Waders Club punch cards anymore either. Today would have earned us two punches: one for the bridge and one for the sand.  We'll put it on Tom's tab.

Rowlf (Details)

Rowlf

9 April 2016

"Ride it to work tomorrow," Michael commanded as I wheeled Rowlf from the back of his shop. He'd done more than re-route the cables.

To the top tube cable guide, he added a zip-tie. This will keep the cable from sliding forward, which is good, because if it slides forward it pulls on the rear brake.

He didn't like how the cables were rubbing against the bottom, despite the brazed-on cable guides, so he slid the cables through Teflon tubes:

He decided that the bar tape would look best finished off in white. The front brake cable now sits safely between the shifter cables.

And, of course, the bloody Campy logo is now precisely where purists need it to be:

I had every intention of taking Beaker to work. It wasn't until I was putting my shoes on that I changed my mind.

I grabbed a couple of lights and the bell from Beaker, put them on Rowlf in a hurry, and set out.

Something didn't feel quite right. Was I too far forward? I felt scrunched and stretched at the same time. The curve of the bars put my hands in a strange position, the way they used to be before I rebuilt Gonzo.

I was pushing against a headwind in 32 degrees, wearing a full backpack. That certainly wasn't helping.

Along a flat stretch in the trees near the Stony Brook bridge, I experimented with hand positions. My hands wanted to be on the top of the bars. The reach to the grips was too far down.  That would be an easy fix. I could tilt the bars up in a matter of minutes. Our lab is a breeding ground for Allen wrenches.

My speed had suffered along with my position. When I got to the lab, I tilted the bars about 15 degrees up from where they'd been.

As soon as I started for home, I knew my position was much better. The wind had shifted; I wouldn't get a push home. Instead, I pushed.

Much better, but much worse. Now I could reach the grips, but I was far too bent over to keep my herniated L5-S1 in place. While Rowlf and I were tearing it up, I could feel my back being torn up too.  Rowlf, the Colnago Saronni Master, was my master. You shall fit me.

If I can't ride Rowlf for 7 miles, I can't ride Rowlf at all.  I wheeled Rowlf next to Beaker for comparison. I left a message with Michael as I did a round of PT on the floor:  "The bar needs to come up a couple of centimeters," I said. "Is it OK to do this?"  I had no idea how much stem was left inside the steer tube.

Once again, it was Jim to the rescue. Over email he described in detail just how much to loosen the stem screw when raising and then positioning the bar. It would be a quick and easy fix.

Wednesday morning, after taking Jack to the train station, I set about raising the stem. The first thing I did was confuse myself. The distance from the floor to the top of the bar was identical for Beaker and Rowlf. How could this be?

What about the grips?  That's where my hands usually are. Aha!

It's that damned curve in Rowlf's bar, and the dip in the grips, that's doing me in.

Loosen, raise, tighten, compare, adjust, tighten, measure, repeat. Good enough.

Much better!  I felt like myself again! No, Rowlf, I don't fit you. You fit me.  Off we went, with a tailwind, at a speed that matched what Beaker and I had been achieving on tailwind days.  We got home well too.

Rowlf is by far the heaviest of my road bikes, heavier than Gonzo fully loaded with lights and battery even. Yet, on flat roads, Rowlf feels lighter than Gonzo and Miss Piggy.  That's Italian craftsmanship for you.

Thursday was rainy. Michael called me back. As I walked from my car to the lab, we talked about Rowlf. "I had the bar up as far as it should go," he told me. "There's a line. It's hard to see."

"I didn't see it," I said, "But I wasn't looking for it."

As it was now, Rowlf was safe. Ish.

Michael already had  a new stem picked out. "We'll make it whole," he promised.

When I got home, I searched for the line. Sumbitch. I'd gone over by all of three millimeters. Three millimeters too far, Jim agreed.

On Friday, I took Beaker to work. Perfection.

The Towpath from Princeton to Trenton

D&R Canal Towpath, Washington Road, Princeton

3 April 2016

When it comes to riding in extreme weather, I am a victim of peer pressure, especially if it's Tom and Ed who are making the plans. Tom doesn't call us his Insane Bike Posse for nothing. 

The 55 mph wind hadn't yet started when the email chain got going. Tom and Ed weren't concerned about the forecast. Neither of them live in a shady neighborhood. Neither has a sickly oak across a fence from their bedroom window. Neither has to put their car in the garage when the winds are over 20 mph for fear of having to replace another windshield.  Then, of course, there's Princeton itself, which has the reputation for toppling trees if one sneezes a bit too energetically.

All night, after the thunderstorms were over, I heard snaps and thumps as bits of my neighbor's oak hit the roof outside my bedroom window. Something hit the window in the wee hours. Needless to say, neither I nor the cats slept very well. When my alarm went off and there was no email from Tom nor Ed, I shuffled to the front windows to check the yard and the driveway. From where I stood, they were both clear.

The email chain sparked back to life, and by the time we'd settled on yes, I had barely an hour to get my act together.

Not until I approached the garage door did I see the two branches, either of which would have made a decent walking stick, on the ground where my car would have been. I assumed these were two of the things that woke me up last night. I kicked them aside and loaded Grover into the car.

Chris had suggested we go south. This would keep us away from the wide-open Carnegie Lake and Millstone River sections.  The wind was coming from the northwest, and the line of trees along the towpath were on the windward side for most of our trip.

That doesn't mean we didn't feel the wind. We did. Here, Tom and Chris look as if they're leaning into it:

We swerved around puddles. We ran through puddles. We got muddy. We pulverized hundreds of twigs. Chris hopped branches that rolled under his wheels. We passed runners. We passed walkers. We passed geese. Ed sped ahead. All the while, wind roared overhead, a constant drone that blended with traffic as we neared Trenton.

The farthest south I'd ever been on the Raritan side of the towpath was Mulberry Street in Trenton. That's as far as the path went back in 2009 when Chris and I attempted it.  This time, when we reached Mulberry, we found a D&R Canal State Park sign pointing across the street.

There, wide and clean, was an asphalt path that couldn't have been more than a few years old. It runs parallel to Route 1, adjacent to train tracks behind tall weeds and a wooden fence.

North of Perry Street, we could see the city center.

Then we were on North Broad, the Trenton War Memorial in the near distance.

This is where John and I had been. I'm sure it was the next street down where I took a picture of the same bend in the canal last week:

From last week:

Yep, definitely.

If the guys had wanted to go to the Trenton Coffee Roaster, I wouldn't have been able to get us there. They didn't. Instead, we turned around.

I stopped on the way back to look at the I-beams across the canal, built to support Route 1, and, as Ed suggested, a good agility test for kayakers who can barrel roll.

I was slowing at the Whitehead Road intersection when a gust of wind shoved me sideways. I didn't think that was possible on a mountain bike. The wind would prove me wrong a couple more times before we got back behind the trees.

When we reached Bakers Basin Road again, Chris and Ed started along the wrong side of the canal, along a grass path. Tom and I took the towpath. Ed turned around. I went to the top of the Route 1 overpass and looked down:

Chris (in the center, behind the trees) continued headstrong on the grass.

He must have followed the canal until it passed under Route 1. He disappeared, then re-emerged, lifting his bike over the barrier and riding the wrong way down the highway until he reached a path to the base of the overpass.

The overpass:

Tom and Ed had gone on and were far ahead of us when we got to the bottom. Chris and I hammered until we caught up near the Brearley House path.

I stopped one more time, on the south side of Washington Road, where cherry trees were in bloom.

In the end, the ride wasn't as tough nor as dangerous as I'd thought it would be. That having been said, I was sweating when the ride was over, and I felt as if I'd done something in those 21 miles.

When I got home, I wheeled Grover around to the back yard and hosed him down.