Turkey Top Turkey Top Turkey Top

At eye-level in the hallway

23 June 2019

It was my idea. After we painted the hallway it took me almost a year to put the maps back up. I put them back up in a different arrangement from before. The top of Hunterdon County was now at eye-level, and I found myself looking straight at Turkey Top. Naturally, Tom thought it was a stupid idea and gave me a link to a couple of his Cololuxe routes that got as far northeast as Long Valley. I played with the routes, agreed it was stupid, and sent the modified ones back. 

Last week, as we headed out towards Belmar, Tom said he wanted to lead his annual Cocoluxe ride this weekend. "Maybe we'll go to Turkey Top," he said. On Wednesday evening he listed the ride. Friday afternoon he sent those of us who had registered two GPS files. One was of his usual Cocoluxe route. The other, he said, would go to Turkey top, "if we are feeling strong."

The expedition would add an extra 800 feet of climbing in the same distance. We would be looking at 46 miles with 4200 feet of elevation gain. That's close enough to 1:1 in my mental shorthand for me to know that we would be in for a slog.

I made sure to get a lot of sleep and have plenty of cold brew ready.

If one is going to drive an hour to Peapack to start a ride around the corner from Cocoluxe, one might as well pack a cooler and get there half an hour early. Experience shows that by noon Cocoluxe is denuded. One wants one's chocolate mice.

"Turkey Top?" Tom asked as we got ready.

"We're here. Might as well."

Ricky said, "I've been working on my cold brew game." Uh oh. I've created a monster.

Tom's crew was all legs: Jim, Ricky, Pete, and Ken G. He and I played it conservatively, partly because we've done this route enough times to know what was coming, and partly because we're not, despite all appearances, stupid. 

We were barely out of the gate when Ken complained that his GPS was telling him he was going too slowly to match his previous speeds on Pottersville Road. I chided him for looking at his computer and told him to look at the scenery instead.

They all missed this:

We continued west to Tewksbury and across to Hill and Dale Road. We went north on Rockaway and Guinea Hollow. These were the prettiest roads of the route, but I didn't take any pictures.

We passed through Califon and crossed Route 513 onto Sliker. So far this was part of the usual path to Schooley's Mountain.

Both Tom and I had remembered Slicker up to the point where it gets steep. Somehow we'd both forgotten about that, having placed the steep part on Pleasant Hill Road, which has its own steep part, and which we slogged right on past this time.

We kept going, getting a little downhill reprieve in the woods. Sliker makes a hard left here. Somebody felt it necessary to decorate the bend with a pot of flowers.

We turned onto Anthony Road, then hooked a right on Mount Lebanon and started climbing again.

Tom and I, being at the back of the pack, arrived at Turkey Top as Pete was singing: "Turkey Top Turkey Top Turkey Top New Jersey!"

Tom said, "Your singing's worse than Jim's."

"Aww!"

"Hey," I said. "You ride with Tom you're gonna feel the burn."

"One way or another," Jim said.

Then we turned left and descended for a mile. It was worth the trip.

"Now we have a 500-foot climb," Tom said. There was much changing of gears.

We were up on a ridge now, the one that frames the northern side of Long Valley, and, while it wasn't exactly flat, it felt like flat. We took our break at the combination post office-general store at the top of Schooley's Mountain.

The rest of the ride was more downhill than up. I remembered Four Bridges Road as prettier than it actually is, although it's plenty pretty. What I'd forgotten until we hit the s-curves is how hard I hit the brakes going around them. For all that Miss Piggy helps me get up the hills, I never trust her to get me down them.

At the bottom of North Four Bridges Road is a dam and a bridge crossing the North Branch of the Raritan River. Jim was already there taking pictures.

South Four Bridges Road was more built-up.

Not finished with the North-South thing, we turned onto North Road and then South Road to get around the center of Chester. Both go more or less east-west.

We collected ourselves at the beginning of Ironia Road.

We climbed another hill and then spent the next mile or so descending. With the end so close, we got spread out. I stopped on Willow to take a picture of some sort of farming thingy.

The end of the route runs along the South Branch of the Raritan River, which means we hit both branches near their northernmost points.

Somewhere in there was one more little hill. I was so done with hills.

I wasn't done with pastries, though. With my cooler only half-full and a lab cookout to go to as soon as I got home and cleaned up, I decided to take the 12-minute drive up to Chester to visit a bakery there, on recommendation from a colleague who would be hosting the cookout. I think I found the last parking spot on the main street. The sidewalks were full of people and dogs. Chester is the kind of place where I'd spend all my money on stuff I don't need and not feel bad about it. If Chester weren't over an hour from home I might consider doing just that.

I didn't pull into my driveway until nearly 3:30. Jack, after being up since midnight our time and flying home from a 10-day work trip overseas, would be on a 4:30 train. I bailed on the party, which would take me over half an hour to get to, and promised the host her bag of cookies. 

I'd signed up for Jim's recovery ride from Six Mile Run to the Pig. Miss Piggy needs some cable tweaking, so I got Rowlf ready instead.

Jack, being six hours ahead of us, had no problem going to sleep early and woke up shortly after I did when my alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. It seems perverse to get up earlier on weekends than during the week, but one benefit of riding to Six Mile from home is that, after peeling off from the group at the rest stop, I'm back home before noon. Another benefit is that, as the days get hotter, the early start will get us out of the worst of it.  So, Rowlf and I made our way up to the park, where we joined Jim, Prem, Ricky, Mindy, and Rich K (who, after I figured out that he was Rich K, we figured out I haven't seen since 2008; no surprise, being that he's the quintessential fastboy). 

As a recovery route, the trip to the Pig is more gentle than the Bagel Barn routes. That having been said,  we did have to get over Province Line Road the hard way, from north to south at Route 518. Poor Mindy; never having been there, she didn't know what to expect from the towering wall of asphalt that is the second hill. Had I known, I'd have told her that the reward is the roller coaster-like descent that looks, from the top, as if the road has fallen off into nowhere. Anyway, she made it, so kudos to her.  We got into Pennington via Pennington-Rocky Hill Road where, on the descent from Cherry Valley, I let Rowlf do his thing. Now that's a bike I feel comfortable bombing downhill on. 

After filling up at the Pig, I stayed with the group as they made their way back east, breaking off where Cold Soil meets Carter. I got home so early I didn't know what to do with myself, so I mowed the lawn and did the laundry before settling down to blog.  

#57: Slow Groove

Belmar, NJ

18 June 2019

This morning, Plain Jim wrote me: "I'll be looking forward to a post-Maine post. This Maine trip was extensively documented, but you've been back for... how long now?"

Um, 18 days.

Right. Let's get to it then.

Where were we?

Ah. The Princeton Event. After a one year hiatus, the Event came back to a new location with fewer routes and fewer rest stops. The objective, at least when I was still on the PFW Board a year ago (I left because glassblowing), was to attract younger riders, as our membership appears to be aging out. Younger riders are, apparently, racer types who live to be KOM on Strava. To that end, the planners put in three Strava segments and would give prizes of some sort to those who KOMed during the event.

Yawn. Whatever.

I wasn't enthusiastic about going, but, being a member in good standing, and a ride leader, and a former Board member, and a Hill Slug, I registered for the Event. A week before, Bob N emailed a handful of us. Only Ricky, Pete, and I said yes. Plain Jim was volunteering. Tom was skedaddling, never being fond of the Event in previous years anyway.

Bob offered something around ten extra miles from his house. That would mean my waking up even earlier than the godawful hour I had planned to wake up at, but wake up even earlier I did, and we left from his house around the time I usually wake up on a work day.

Ricky and Pete were waiting for us. "Don't talk to anybody!" Pete admonished me as we turned in to register.

Half the reason to ride the Event is to talk to people one hasn't seen since the last Event. Half the people I want to talk to are usually working registration. I talked to people, but not for very long.

On one of the first hills, a big group passed us. I recognized some of them as the true B hill-climbing fastboys. One of their number trailed off the back. We picked him up and took him along with us. He'd come all the way from up in Essex County to ride the Event.

The folks who planned the route did a good job. We started on the southeast side of the Sourland Mountain, went up and over it, passed through Stockton, and went north on Lower Creek. Armed with my new camera I stopped for a picture of the Green Sergeants covered bridge.

From behind I heard, "A Muppet and a camera, it has to be Laura."

Joe M and his group had pulled up behind us. We rode to Sergeantsville and to the first rest stop at the Delaware Township school together.

There were more I-haven't-seen-you-since people working the rest stop. Somebody there had the genius idea of coating bananas in peanut butter and wrapping them in tortillas.

We headed east, down Lambert Road to Dunkard Church, where I stopped because the colors in the field looked like they'd be a good camera test. I hadn't adjusted the exposure and was shooting in automatic mode. This camera is much improved when it comes to handling bright and dark contrast. I didn't have to fix anything in post.

And the zoom works too.

There's an old barn on Back Brook Road that I've been meaning to take pictures of. I stopped for it this time.

"When are we doing a century?" Ricky asked.

Good question.

Our second rest stop was in the driveway of one of the Board members, on Orchard Road. Through the trees I could see the ridge to the north, where Old York Road is.

I was more tired than I should have been. I chalked it up to my lack of training this season, and to the shorts I was wearing, which are just that much more snug than the rest of the ones I own (same company, same size, same product line as the rest, go figure).

There was a pizza truck ready for us when we finished, and Dave H was handing out ice cream bars. I know better than to eat pizza and get back on the bike, so I opted for some half-stale, leftover bagels with peanut butter instead. And an ice cream bar. It's only 4.8 more miles.

I finished the day with about 75 miles.

After cleaning up, I spent the afternoon on the back porch with Jack and the cats. I drank sour beer and blogged about Maine.

I got up ridiculously early again the next morning to pedal over to Six Mile Run, where Jim was leading a recovery ride. I stayed with the group until the rest stop at the always-crowded Bagel Barn, then peeled off for home, racking up 52 miles for the day.

When are we doing a century? How about next week?

A propos to nothing, here are photos of my back yard, with the new camera, all in automatic mode, no edits:

My old camera had trouble with these roses too.

Here's an orchard spider, an orb weaver, on the deck. I hope it sticks around. I like it's green legs.

Moxie:

More fun with zooming: First, no zoom.

And second, with 80x digital zoom:

About that century: I listed my customary pick-your-distance ride and got takers for all three starting points. Ricky, of course, arrived at my house. I fed him cold brew, French press, Acadia coffee. It hit him about four miles in.

We picked up Jim and Martin at MCP. Tom was waiting at Etra. Jack H was there, having ridden in from home in Yardley. But, with a stress fracture in his left foot and instructions to take it easy, he wouldn't be joining us. Instead, he was headed back home, because, for him, fifty flat miles is taking it easy.

Martin and I noticed the kid's bike leaning against the trash can.

He insisted on hamming it up. He wants to be in my blog in a bad way. Here ya go, buddy.

The Minit Stop in Jackson (and I've never heard anyone say anything but "TheMinitStopInJackson") was crowded and understaffed. Everyone was ordering sandwiches; it was only 10:30 a.m.

Part of the store is on its way to becoming an ice cream shop, complete with an outdoor serving window. 

There's a color photo of some horrendous concoction involving, well, I don't really know. Whatever it is, you'll soon be able to get it at TheMinitStopInJackson.

I'd warned everyone ahead of time that I'd be stopping for pictures at the Manasquan Reservoir.

Tom left the group when we got to Farmingdale. "Have fun with the 20-mph headwind!" he said as he rode away.

I forgot to mention that we were riding east in a tailwind from the southwest.

The wind changed direction, as it always does, as we got within a mile of the coast. It was coming from everywhere.

"What would you take a picture of?" I asked Martin. He was a staff photographer for the Times of Trenton.

"The beach," he said.

Erm, yeah, well, I guess. But there are gulls on a jetty, so them first.

From left to right: Ricky, Jim, and Martin.  I need a https://www.google.com/search?q=biohazard+bike+jersey&oq=biohazard+bike+jersey&aqs=chrome..69i57.3687j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8" target="_blank" title="they're out there">Biohazard jersey

.

We geeked out a bit over a beach cruiser's internal hub.

And then the headwind, fifty miles of it. We took a break at the usual Dunkin Donuts outside of Freehold. At around the 90 mile mark my right leg really wanted to cramp, despite my having been drinking electrolyte fizz (all hail Nuun!) all day. I staved it off with a quick stretch and a gob of food.

Jim and Martin finished with 85 miles. Ricky and I got our century. Kermit now has 41,207 lifetime miles.

Normally I take the day after a century off. My legs were stiff after the century. I decided to mow the lawn to loosen them up. I kind of had to anyway; there was rain in the forecast for the next five days. I stretched before I went to bed. Feeling slightly better, I decided I might try Jim's recovery ride.

I decided to take Rowlf, who hasn't been out all year. While I got him ready, I hoped for rain.

There wasn't any rain. I decided to go. I didn't ride from home, though; I drove.

I mostly stayed in the small ring, which is, for me, showing an unusual amount of restraint. I only stopped for pictures twice, once on East Mountain Road, west of the Carrier Clinic, for the barn we keep passing.

And again on Burnt Mill Road, for the field next to the school:

After the ride my legs felt much better than they had when I'd woken up. They didn't hurt at all. Huh! If one treats a recovery ride like a recovery, one can actually, you know, recover!

When's the next century, Ricky?