Finish Happy

Jerry's Brooklyn Grill, Whitehouse Station, NJ

18 August 2018

"I had my phone on the calendar," Ricky said. "I kept hitting refresh."

He wasn't the only one who thought I'd cancel today's ride. Between home and the north side of Princeton I was driving in a drizzle. No matter; if we're going to be stuck in this weather pattern for the rest of the summer then we're going to have to be willing to risk a few downpours.

I stepped out of the car at Woodfield Park to a full complement of Hill Slugs. Jim, Tom, Ricky, Jack H, and Blake were all as willing to dodge the rain as I was. We were joined by one newcomer, Rick R, who has been attempting to get to one of my rides all season. 

Before we set out I documented the sky.

"As long as we can see our shadows," I said to Jack.

In my rear water bottle I'd dropped a tablet of Nuun, some berry-flavored concoction, hoping that it would taste better than diluted Gatorade and that it would be good enough that I'd actually drink all of it. I took a tentative sip. While it wasn't awful, it was an entirely different kind of icky.

I like going around the reservoir clockwise because it puts us closer to the water. Counterclockwise is a little easier, I think, because the climb is broken into sections. Plus there's the best descent in Hunterdon County if you go counterclockwise. 

We started from Dreahook, avoiding Stanton Mountain Road and going south past the old general store instead. When going over the route online I'd noticed that the store, recently a pizza place, wasn't even on the map. It didn't look open when we coasted by either. (It's not. According to the Internet, the Stanton General Store is permanently closed. For now.)

The clockwise climb is a three-tiered slog. Before that there are two little humps. On the first one I heard a noise, felt some resistance, and assumed that my rear brake was rubbing. I'd put on new tires two days prior, and I'm not the best at seating the rear wheel. Everything was aligned when I stopped to check. On the second little hump I realized that the noise and resistance were coming from my bottom bracket. I've had this frame for nearly three years. It wouldn't surprise me if it were time for a bottom bracket replacement.

The real climb is in three parts., lately conveniently labeled for a triathlon back in May. I'd seen the names hastily spray-painted in previous years: Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear. This time the organizers went all out. Not only were there labels, but also stenciled bears.

On one of these bears Rick and I got talking. "It's a good sign if you can keep up with the ride leader," he said.

I told him I never go all-out. "I'm always looking ahead to the next day or the next week." 

He's been triathlon training, and his coach is of the opinion that one should go all out all the time. "I don't agree," he said. "My philosophy is to finish happy." That's a good philosophy*.

After Baby Bear was one more marking on the road. I went over it so quickly that I'm not sure I read it correctly. Did it really say "Prebaby Bear?" Could they not spell "fetal?"

The same folks had also helpfully painted "slow down" right before the sharp turn near the boat launch. 

The water level at the reservoir is back where it should be. The air was so hazy that most of my photos were duds. I zoomed in on the kayakers and paddle boarders.

Zooming in and lightening this one up, I realized that a dragonfly had photo-bombed the kayakers.

We followed the edge of the reservoir to Old Mountain Road. At the turn there, the spray-painters did my work for me again by telling us all to slow down.

Old Mountain has been a crater farm for years. Today it looked as if it had been paved yesterday. That made climbing easier, for which I was grateful, nervous that I'd succumb to cramps again. My legs felt fine; the grinding in my bottom bracket was more disconcerting.

At the top of one of the rollers Jim got a flat. Blake and Jack had gone so far ahead that they didn't see us stop. We figured they'd be at the rest stop by the time we got rolling again. They weren't; Jack had climbed back up the hill (of course he did) to find us, while Blake waited at the bottom (doing a crossword puzzle on his phone, he told me later).  We all rode into Whitehouse Station together for our rest stop at Jerry's Brooklyn Grill.

I sat on the sidewalk next to the bench. Only when we were getting ready to go did I notice that it was covered in lichen.

I didn't like the looks of the sky to our east as we left.

We rolled along without incident until I got a pinch flat while rounding a corner under the railroad bridge in Neshanic.  My rubber allergy is known in this group. Ricky got to work on the tube while I assembled the carbon dioxide inflator. In a rare goof, I emptied the cartridge while setting it up. No problem. I always carry two with me and keep two more with each bike. The second cartridge didn't fill the new tube. Nor did the third or Jim's fourth. It took that much to figure out that the tube was defective. A bunch of geniuses, we are.

"I'm gonna finish this ride," I told Ricky as I dug around for my second spare tube.

"We have a riddle," I told Rick. "How many Free Wheelers does it take to fix a flat?"

He thought for a second. "One to hold the tire, one to---."

I shook my head and cut in. "How many ya got?"  Now Rick has been initiated.

My second spare tube and Tom's Mountain Morph pump got us to 100 psi and on our way. We only had four miles left.

Despite two flat tires and a leisurely rest stop, we made it back to Hillsborough without getting rained on.  Blake and I were the last to leave. We both heard the thunder.

I decided to take Miss Piggy directly to Hart's. I took Route 518 through Hopewell, where I noticed that the restaurant next to Boro Bean, the one that was Bell and Whistle, and then Sweetgrass, and then Basilico or something, is now Entrata. Rest stops and restaurants are like mayflies around here.

Hart's was crowded when I wheeled Miss Piggy in. I could have left her there with one of the shop employees, but I saw Ross in the back. I only let Ross and Oscar work on Miss Piggy. The three of them have a history. I wheeled her farther in and waited.

"You're back early!" Ken was standing in the middle of the store. "Did you ride?"  I was surprised my sweaty appearance and humidity-induced stench hadn't given that away.

"Why weren't you with us?" I chided. He'd had a time constraint, was thinking it would rain, and went hiking on Baldpate Mountain instead.  While I waited I called up my maintenance spreadsheet on my phone and figured out how many miles I had on this bottom bracket. I held the phone up to Ken. "Is 3800 a lot?" I asked him. He didn't think so.

When Ross was free I told him what was going on. "Wanna hang?" he asked. "I can take a look now if you want."  This is why I give my mechanical work to Hart's. It's like an English pub in there. I sat on one of the two stools next to the counter and watched them pull Piggy apart. Ross and I caught each other up while he worked on some tiny mess of metal on his side of the counter.

Tom, once the owner of a bike shop in PA, now part-time for Ross, showed a young mechanic how to remove the bottom bracket while Ross looked on and jumped in when necessary. Ross checked the bearings. Tom cleaned the bracket. "It was a little dirty," Tom said. "The bearings look good," Ross added. They had me take her for a test ride out back, but in a flat parking lot there was no way to tell.

"I'll know next week," I said. Tom is planning the annual Lying Bastard Ride on the Pennsylvania side. I knew they wouldn't charge me so I bought two tubes to replace the ones I'd used today.

"Bring it back at the end of the year and we'll reassess," Ross said as I wheeled Miss Piggy out of the store.

Tomorrow's forecast was looking to be a little worse than today's. I was registered for Jim's recovery ride. He wasn't sure if and when he'd cancel. I'd been marinating in my sweating cycling gear for hours already, so when I got home I mowed the lawn to get all the sweaty stuff out of the way for the day.

[19 August 2018: Well, whaddaya know? This time it is actually raining all day.]

(*One of the Spinal Tap drummers said something to that effect.) 

#55: So That Sucked

4x Nuun Bubble

8 August 2018

Since 2004 I've ridden the Princeton Event Century. In recent years I'd bike to the start and come home with something hovering around 115 miles.

Not having an Event this year spurred Tom to put together a series of routes for the first Saturday of August, the traditional Event day. Tom would lead the 65-mile ride and I would gather the crazies for 100 or 115.

There had been rain in the forecast all week, and the most it had amounted to was the occasional two-minute downpour. As Saturday drew closer the chance of rain went up, but Tom didn't want to cancel until the last minute.

Ricky and Len had signed up to ride from my house with me. At 8:00 p.m. on Friday Tom said that things didn't look good but that he'd wait until 6:00 a.m. to make the final decision.

I'd already prepped everything. I even got to bed early, going over the route in my head until I fell asleep.

At 5:45 a.m. I woke up and checked my email. Nothing. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, pet the cats, and checked again. Nothing. So I slathered on the sunblock, the point of no return. That's when Tom canceled the ride. We moved everything to Sunday and alerted the troops.

It was too early to stay awake. I jumped in the shower to wash all the sunblock away and climbed back into bed. "Canceled," I murmured to Jack as he rolled over.

Next thing I knew it was 8:30 a.m. Jack had overslept too. I had no idea I'd been that tired.

I spent the day doing chores and the things we had planned for Sunday, including our regular trip to Philadelphia where I pay my parents' bills, get yelled at, and then go out to dinner with a friend. Somewhere in there, between the yelling and the appetizer, my stomach started to hurt.

We got home early enough that I was able to get to bed early again, but this time I couldn't fall asleep. My lower guts were churning. I was tossing and turning.

When I woke up at 5:45 the sun was out, and with it high humidity and a heat index somewhere in the 90s. Last night's gut yuck was still with me a little.

Len couldn't make the Sunday ride, but Ricky was at my house at 7:00. Jack H rolled in from home. We tried to convince him that he needed to ride the century with us and get himself 125 miles. "Then we'll have to ride to his house and back to get 125 too," Ricky said. I was up for it.

"What if there are a hundred people in the parking lot," Jack wondered as we made our way along Bakers Basin Road.  "Not gonna happen," I said.

Tom did have a group though. Chris was there, and Linda McA, who I hadn't seen since March. Andrew had ridden in from home. Sergei's face looked a little familiar; I remembered him as a Cranbury fastboy.

Linda was on the fence about riding the century. "I don't do well in high heat," she said. "I cramp up." She said she'd decide when we got to New Egypt, where the routes would diverge. Ricky was still working on Jack, who was, surprisingly, not interested in that many miles.

We all felt pretty good for the first leg. We rode through the Asssunpink WMA, then south past Clarksburg. We stopped at the Wawa in Jackson and then headed south again towards Cassville. We swung around the east side of New Egypt and came up to the town center from the south. I had to stop on Brindletown Road for the herd of longhorn cattle:

We'd all been drinking a lot. I was hungrier than usual. I didn't want to eat too much though, so I stuck with my usual century snack: half a peanut butter sandwich and the top of a muffin.

My lower guts were bothering me again. I had to run to the bathroom twice. After the second time I felt much better.

Linda, Ricky, and I went south, through Fort Dix, past Pemberton Lake, and into the Pinelands. I was in the third-leg doldrums, which I'd come to expect. "The third leg is always the toughest for me," I said to Linda. She agreed.

This time felt different though. I seemed as if I had nothing to pull from, as if what I'd eaten had made no difference at all. I skhooshed a few ShotBlocks into my mouth and hoped for the best.  I'm known for keeping a steady cadence. I found myself needing to coast to rest my legs. I stayed behind Ricky and Linda, far behind.

I used the view at the end of Burrs Mill at Pemberton-Browns Mills Road as an excuse to rest a little.

We were all glad to reach the Dunkin Donuts at mile 73. I slumped down against the wall and ate a melting energy bar. "Forty more miles," I said. It seemed impossibly far.

Linda came out of the store laughing. "I went to put one electrolyte tablet in my water and four fell in!" Her bottle was foaming.

She dumped some of it out. We continued north.

"We're gonna stop again in Allentown at 100 miles," I said. We would need water if not more food.

We went up Arney's Mount the easy way, and rolled through the country there on streets whose names were all compounds of the two towns they joined. I never can keep track of which is which and relied on my cue sheet and GPS to tell me where to turn. To the GPS's credit, when my mind went elsewhere the device corrected me.

We were somewhere north of Route 68, at mile 90, when my right quad began to cramp. I've had this happen a few times over the years. One salt tablet knocks it back. I'd already had two tablets with my snacks. I downed a third.

It didn't work. Between mile 90 and 100 I must have stopped at least four times. "I can't go at your pace," I told Linda and Ricky. "If you want, go ahead without me."

"No," they said, because they're good little Slugs. Amicitia quam celeritate.

We were three miles from our Allentown rest stop when my entire leg -- calf, quad, and hamstring -- seized in unison. Linda suggested some massaging to get the knots out and started squeezing my leg. It hurt all right, which we took as a good sign, and I was able to ride, in lower gear than my usual grind, to Pete's Deli on 524, the one with indoor seating.

Ricky bought a gallon of water and filled all of our bottles. Linda insisted on paying for my orange juice. I was in no shape to protest; I'd collapsed on a bench and wasn't keen on moving. I didn't even have to pee. I hadn't since New Egypt. Ricky confessed to being beat too. We considered, for a fleeting moment, calling for a Lyft. Instead we sat inside for a while, eating bananas. Linda was feeling fine.

She gave me a pack of Gu. I've never had Gu. "What do I do with this?" I asked.

"Tear it open and shoot it into your mouth."

I gagged as it went down. It felt like those gel fluoride treatments we used to get at the dentist's back in the day.

I felt a little dizzy when I stepped outside again. We'd already gone off the cue sheet to get to the deli. I decided to stay off it and take 524 through Robbinsville. "There might be traffic," I warned. They were okay with that. It wasn't too bad for a Sunday afternoon.

As long as I kept my cadence to a moderate spin and didn't put too high a gear on, I was able to pedal without pain. I had no energy though, and every time we reached a slight rise my leg would start to cramp again unless I geared down.

At this point, Linda had decided that there was no way I was going to ride home from the park. She was going to drive me even though both of our bikes might not fit in her car. As we turned onto Edinburg Road she had a eureka moment. "Put your bike in my car and drive my car to your house. I'll ride back with Ricky."

"Are you OK to ride home?" I asked Ricky. He said he was, and I said, "If you do than I will."

"No," he said, and I knew he was right. I was finished, with 108.96 miles out of the 117 I'd hoped for.

I saw Ricky and Linda in the rear-view mirror as I turned onto Old Trenton Road. The drive back to my house would take about 20 minutes. Going by bike would take 30, which is why I never drive to the park.

On Bakers Basin Road my leg seized again. With my foot on the gas pedal there wasn't anything I could do about it short of wiggle it around a little.

"This next level," I thought as it happened for a second time.

When I got home I put Kermit inside, lamented to Jack, washed my hands, drank a glass of milk, got a couple mugs of water chilling, and dumped most of a jar of pickles into a bowl.

The three of us stood in the living room with Jack, eating pickles, drinking water, and talking about cats until the pickles were gone.

I record my weight every morning. Out of curiosity I weighed myself again before I got into the shower. I was down three pounds even after having drunk a pound of water.

I drank some more.  I drank again after. I drank more still at Nomad, where I could have eaten an entire pizza but didn't because I really wanted some ice cream. I drank more after the ice cream. It took all of that and until 8:30 before I finally had to pee.

One would think that, after 54 centuries, I'd know how to prepare for #55. I'd apparently started at a hydration deficit from whatever was going on in my intestines; I probably hadn't drunk enough with dinner the night before; and this was one of the more humid centuries I've done (there have been worse). I wrote to the Slugs to tell them that, from now on, I will be scheduling my centuries for days that are 70 degrees with the threat of rain. #54 was one of those.

We got chatting over email. Both Tom and Ricky had come close to cramping. Jack H called it quits half a mile shy of 100 because he was on the verge too. Jack's verdict, after careful consideration, was that we are all "fucking nuts."

There are as many hydration techniques as there are bike riders. After talking to my trainer at the gym  on Tuesday -- he's a state-ranked triathlete who keeps track of hydration ounces when he's training -- he confirmed what we'd all been discussing: our tolerance decreases as we get older. He advised me that losing anything more than 3% of my body weight would put me in danger of cramping, and that I needed to drink at least that much to balance loss to sweat. "You'll do better on your next century," he said.

Cautiously, I rode my bike into work on Tuesday morning. There was a little tailwind to boost my confidence. Although my speed was down, my legs held up.

Despite all of that, I did have fun on Sunday. That's all that really matters.