Lower Creek Road, Delaware Township
18 September 2016
We both brought our Synapses, yet Tom didn't bless us with the Holy Kickstand before the ten of us took off from Pennington on Saturday. That's why Plain Jim cut his tire badly enough that his fix didn't hold and he had to turn back before we got out of Hopewell.
Sending Jim off to find his own way back to where we started was penance enough for the disaster gods, and they left the remaining nine of us alone for the rest of the ride. If you don't count my mirror, which, despite repeated bending and repositioning, refused to remain on my glasses, despite having done so all season. Halfway through the ride, a piece fell off into the grass, and I gave up, which meant that I was leading half-blind (that's how it feels when I can't see behind me) and half-deaf (because I am hearing impaired and rely on the mirror to see cars before I can hear them).
Normally, when I lead a ride to Sergeantsville, it's winter, and I try to keep the distance down. Without a cue sheet and without much thought, I can bring the ride in at 42 or 43 miles no matter which way I go. Saturday was different; the weather was perfect. I'd dug out a route from a few years ago that throws in an extra few miles of elevation before the rest stop.
On Lower Creek Road, we passed by the Wickecheoke Creek, a protected stream that is threatened by the PennEast pipeline (yes, I'm bringing that up again).
Between the leaves, the blue sky reflected on the water:
The Green Sergeants Covered Bridge behind the trees:
"What's the grade?" Nevada asked me.
"I have no fucking clue."
Somebody said, "Sometimes that's better."
The fellow on the recumbent did an admirable job on the triple-humper. We weren't even very spread out either. When Pine Hill turned to dirt, we turned onto Pavilica. I'm an asshole, but I'm not that much of an asshole.
At the end of the road, Nevada asked me, "Did you see the goat on the porch?"
"No! Where?"
One house back from the corner, there he was.
"Well, why not?" I asked the goat. "Why not indeed? If I were a goat and I had a porch, I'd hang out on it."
The goat -- or was it a dog with horns? -- didn't seem the least bit perturbed by my babble.
Locktown-Sergeantsville Road:
Sergeantsville is at the bottom of the hill, more or less. We didn't go that way; we went the other way and climbed some more hills instead.
The newly-salmon Sergeantsville General Store was crawling with cyclists. Mike and Theresa, late of early Hill Slug fame, were there. Tom and I sat with them and talked about Yosemite, grizzly bears, Alaska, polar bears, Maine, and cycling up Cadillac Mountain. I thought I had it bad with the wind; Mike did it with an upset stomach and left souvenirs along the way.
Blake took this picture while I was inside talking with the WDVR DJ.
I went north again after the break just so that we could get to the top of the hill where Routes 523 and 579 meet. It's like biking into a painting, some What Dreams May Come shit.
We coasted on down into the painting, south to Ringoes, east through the Wertsville rollers, and then dragged ourselves up Runyon Mill. Stony Brook, newly graveled from near the top of the hill all the way past the golf course, was b-b-b-bumpy but a far cry better than the moonscape it had been in recent years.
Peter navigated us through the detour around the Wargo Road bridge construction. I know, I know, but sometimes even I am willing to follow a detour.
Since I started from home, the 50-mile ride was almost a metric century for me. This wasn't the best of plans, considering that tomorrow I'd be on the 50 mile course at the Ride for McBride.
At least I was able to salvage the missing piece from my mirror from an older one, and bend the arms the way they should have been bent so that the thing would stay put on my glasses. I might be trashed tomorrow, but at least I'd be able to see the lack of other riders behind me.
Somehow, I managed to sleep almost enough, and recover almost enough, to keep up with Marc, Dave H, Chris, and Jim in the morning. My computer's transmitter, however, gave up the ghost 23 miles into the ride. No battery change is going to save it this time. It's over a decade old; I can't get parts. *Sigh.*
The rain held off, although the humidity was creeping up all day. The Plumsted rest stop for the 25- and 50-mile rides, appeared well-populated for a small event.
We haven't changed the routes in three years, and nobody seems to mind. The top of Hill Road, the part that's west of the Walnford Mill, is a good place to gather and regroup.
I sat next to Ron M, who told us a Joe story I hadn't heard before, of Joe's rather candid description of a certain child's athletic abilities.
On my way home, I stopped on Sawmill Road to take a picture of a yellowing crop of soybeans:
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