Hot Sticky Gross

 

 Rocktown Road, West Amwell, NJ

6 July 2019

"Bring three cups," commanded Ricky, the cold brew monster I created. He wanted me to try his Guatemalan concoction. Martin, having heard that the extra miles come with cold brew, wanted in on the deal. I brought out three of my hand-made glass cups and my leftover Dead Man's (cold) Brew.

I'd expected the ride to be canceled, and when I woke up at 5:45 a.m. it was so dark outside that I was sure it was raining. It wasn't, and it wouldn't until some time after noon. At 6:08 a.m. I wrote to Jim, Ricky, and Martin to let them know that the ride was on. Now the three of us were headed north to the Pig under thick cloud cover and air that was nearly potable.

We picked up Jack H as we cruised past Twin Pines. "Did you list Twin Pines as the start?" he asked, "Because nobody's there."

"Sourland Coffee," I said. "I think." I didn't remember typing in the location at all, but I was sure that I hadn't written Twin Pines. I think.

The helmets outside of the Pig reassured me that I'd typed in the right thing.

"Blake!" I hadn't seen him all year. Len G, who I'm used to seeing on the Cranbury side, was there, as well as Brian T, who was riding with the Slugs for the first time.

"Are they bathroom-friendly?" Blake asked, gesturing towards the Pig.

"They're everything friendly." That's why we start there now.

Given the forecast and the heat, my plan was to play things by radar. We'd stay local and check often. We probably wouldn't get in the distance I'd listed, which was fine with everyone.

When I'm on autopilot I follow my standard winter route up Stony Brook, which is what we did. Brian was new-ish to these roads, so I did my best to call out when to gear down. There's that short, sharp, shock on the Stony Brook dogleg at Route 518, and if you're turning from Snydertown to Linvale you'd best be in a low gear.

At the top of Linvale I checked the radar. Nothing. "Might as well go to Lambertville," I said. We were halfway there anyway.

On Rocktown Road, I spied some cows I'd never seen before. I sent the Slugs on ahead while I doubled back. The herd was patient. A driver slowed, saw the cows, saw me with the camera, and gave me the thumbs-up.

 

I was far enough behind the Slugs now that they were waiting for me at the intersection. "Right turn," I gestured, and they followed me down the hill. I was too far ahead to warn Brian about the ass-burner between the creek and the forever-being-renovated barn.  "That was unexpected," he said as he caught up to me.

I waved the group ahead on Alexauken Creek. Blake stayed back with me.

"There should be a program where you can remove power lines from pictures," he said.

"I'm sure there are," I said, never having checked. (There are. I checked.) "But the power lines are part of the scene."

One can always crop, of course.

Or zoom in.

Rojo's seemed empty, which is to say that we found a table and didn't have to wait in line for more than a few minutes. It was only 10:00 a.m, which probably had something to do with it. Still spooked by last week's overcaffeination, I chose a smoothie instead of iced coffee.

Now that the clouds had dispersed, the heat was coming in, and the humidity was rising with it. I opted for a direct route home with as few big climbs as possible. We took Quarry/Rocktown out of the city and then retraced our steps back to Mountain Road. 

"I don't feel like doing Snydertown," I said. "It's annoying." So we went straight past Linvale and turned onto the dirt section of Stony Brook.

"It's a Hill Slugs thing," I explained to Brian, and gave him the lowdown on dirt roads and closed bridges.

As far as dirt roads go, Stony Brook isn't a bad one. There is the occasional pothole and random spray of loose gravel, but most of it is hard-packed dirt. Starting from Mountain means that the road is mostly downhill, which helps too.

I skipped the slow ascent up Wargo, too, choosing to stay on Moores Mill all the way to the end. We still had to climb on Pennington-Rocky Hill, but at least the pavement was smooth and there was some shade now and then.

As we waited for the light to change at Main Street in Pennington, I looked up to see a wall of gunmetal gray clouds to the west. "I think there's just enough time for us to get home," I said, gesturing towards Ricky and Martin.

Blake was more optimistic. "Well, sure," I said. "You only have one mile left."

It was tempting fate to go into the Pig, but I did, because chocolate cookie to take home.

We only spent a few minutes in the parking lot. We got back to the house at noon, with the sun still out. Threatening clouds were closing in.

Right about then, Blake texted, "OK, you were right about the dark clouds."

I didn't see his message until an hour later. I told him that we got home dry. "That's good," he answered. "It opened up like the wrath of God a few minutes after you left."

Eventually there was a little rain. After it passed, around 2:00, I went out onto the deck in my bare feet to take pictures of the hibiscus flowers — a weed shrub that I let grow because it's pretty — two of which had just bloomed this morning, the third, yesterday's blossom, already wilting.

In the time it took to move the camera towards the redbud leaves, the lens fogged up:

I wiped it with my t-shirt and tried again. Much better.

I was out on the deck for maybe one minute, and already I was starting to sweat. I went back inside, convinced that I should just put on my pajamas because there was no way I'd be stepping out again until the excessive heat warning was over.

Now it's 6:30 p.m. There's a big band of showers headed this way. Good. Plain Jim has a ride tomorrow and this sticky thing is getting old.

It's only the beginning of July. I don't understand why people move to Florida. I want to go north.