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7 July 2019

Yesterday's storms didn't do much to tamp down the humidity. I was on Rowlf, my 1986 Colnago Master, on my way to Plain Jim's now regular Sunday ride from Blackwells Mills. I had my GPS, which I always give an extra wiggle in order to make sure it's snug in its holder, recording the ride. Unless I touch the screen, the scree stays off, which comes in handy when I think I feel rain. If I see water on the gray panel I know it's not my imagination.

It wasn't my imagination. As soon as I entered Princeton I was getting rained on. Princeton, the exclusive town that it is, often has its own weather. I had a feeling that it would stop as soon as I passed through the eastern border. It did.

Jim had most of the regulars: Dr Lynne, Bill B, Bob N, and David S. Tom, who missed yesterday's ride, had parked in Rocky Hill to get some extra miles in. They'd seen a little rain on their way over too.

Jim wanted to stop at Thomas Sweet again, but he didn't want to ride on Route 206 at all, not on the way in, nor on the way out. Bob suggested climbing a berm between the shopping center and the Wawa. Tom had a better idea: There's an abandoned office building behind the Wawa; we could ride on Route 518, turn into the driveway, ride through the empty parking lot, and go across the grass to the shopping center. Jim liked that idea.

We took his usual route through Hillsborough. Somewhere in there we picked up Dave H, who has an uncanny talent of figuring out when we'll be where on Jim's route so that he can slide into the group.

Now that I've done this ride on three different bikes, I can safely say that Rowlf is the least of the climbers. No surprise; he doesn't have the extra gears that Kermit and Miss Piggy have.

Rowlf is better than Miss Piggy when it comes time to hammer, and when we got to the top of East Mountain, I hammered.

There were potholes.

I was at the end of the road. We were regrouping. I looked down and noticed that my GPS was gone.

"I thought I hit something," Tom said.

I didn't have that jolt of adrenaline I expected I'd have when I looked down. I didn't feel upset. I didn't bother to leave the group and go back; a search would be fruitless anyway because I couldn't be sure where it fell off, nor if it even landed in the road.

Oh well. Good riddance, Son of Piece of Shit.

"I'm sorry you're having an expensive day," Bob said. That part does suck.

"I know why it's gone," I told Jim. "Rowlf kicked it off. It's too new. He can barely stand the shifters, let alone the speedometer."

"Ha!" Jim said.  "Rowlf says, 'I don't need no digital stuff!'"

"'We didn't have none of this shit back in '86!' The speedometer is scared right now." I gave it a jiggle, you know, just in case. It was secure.

When we got to the empty parking lot, Tom led us in. We went around to the back, where we were faced with a steeply sloping lawn, beyond which was a small, flat area of grass, and beyond that a dirt groove in an even steeper slope.

There wasn't time to say anything because Tom, having coasted down the first section, hit a hidden bump and did an endo, landing sideways in the grass. He wasn't hurt. The rest of us walked our bikes down the slope.

Nobody tried to ride through the cut either. Road bikes aren't built for this sort of thing. Much trash talk ensued as, one by one, we gingerly made our way down the slope. Road shoes aren't meant for this sort of thing.

We navigated our way through the busy parking lot to the other side and parked our bikes against the wall of the empty storefront next to Thomas Sweet. Tom was messing with his handle bar. When his bike went down, it landed on the left side, knocking the shifter inwards by a good thirty degrees. He and Jim tired to move it back without tools. It wouldn't budge. 

Inside, where it was cool, we sat for a while. Jim was eating ice cream again. I opted for a smoothie, which had far too much whole milk in it. 

Bob, having finished some sort of pastry, got up and came back with ice cream. "This is a demonstration of my complete lack of impulse control," he said. "I'll call it lunch."

"It's 10:30," I told him.

We had a conversation about yesterday's weather. We'd all expected a day of downpours. Instead we saw lines of storms on the radar that would disappear before they reached us.

"I don't know how people live in Florida," I said.

"November through April," Dave replied. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah, but the roads suck," Tom said.

Still not wanting to ride on Route 206, Jim let Bob lead us out of the shopping center, back towards the Wawa. We had to climb a different berm. This one, at least, had a series of tree roots that served as steps.  Wawa parking lots are always chaotic. Bill commented that we'd have been safer on Route 206. I agree; at least there's a shoulder.

When we got back onto Route 518, the group turned north onto a side street and I went straight, making my way back home. For the third ride in a row I arrived soaking wet from sweat, my shins filthy from road dirt sticking to sun block. It was nearly noon. I had yard work to do. I decided to do it while I was still dripping. That way I could get weed-whacked greenery stuck to my shins too. It's a good look.

After I cleaned myself off and ate all the things, I plunked myself down in front of the computer to order a new GPS. Despite all of my griping, I'm sticking with Garmin. I have the mounting hardware on all of my bikes already and I know the software and its pitfalls. I'm not going for the latest and greatest; it's too large and too expensive. I've opted for a newer version of the one I lost. It should be here Wednesday. You'll hear me cursing anew next weekend.