Rides of Attrition

Hill Road Near Walnford, NJ

29 June 2019

I push the screen door open with my pinky as I carry two mugs of cold brew to the front steps.

"Sticky." 

"Yeah," Ricky says.

It's not hot, at least. Not yet. Still, by the time we get to Mercer County Park my arms are covered in sweat. It's going to be one of those days.

Jim and Tom are already huddling in the shade of the picnic pavilion. Chris and Andrew are in the parking lot.

We're heading southeast, to Charlestown House in New Egypt. Late afternoon will bring severe thunderstorms. We'll be home by then.

I'm wearing new shorts, which is usually a good thing, but today it's not. For years I've been buying a specific style and size from one company, and now I can't find what I want anymore. I went with two pairs of the upgraded version, which, had I read the comments before I bought, I would have known were running small. The fit is almost fine, a little tight around the legs. That's a problem in the hills but today's ride is flat. What's bothering me now is that the chamois ends in the same spot the saddle does, and if my position shifts I have to stand and hope the wardrobe falls back into place. It often doesn't. And if it's not going to feel right when I'm on Kermit, it's not going to feel right on any other bike.

(I have a new helmet, too, the last of the model I like. The newer version, which I also bought, has straps closer to my ears, causing turbulence so loud I can't wear my hearing aids when I'm wearing the helmet to commute to work. I'm almost due for new hearing aids anyway; I'll deaf my way through the rest of the commuting season and get new in-the-ear aids over the winter.)

When we pass the dam at Imlaystown Lake I stop for pictures and to give my butt a break.

I'm following the route I used back in the spring, downloaded from the GPS record of the trip. There was one spot where the track was off. I corrected it to the nearest road without thinking much about it.

I ought to have thought much about it, because we find ourselves at more or less a dead end. There is a dirt track where the road should have been, but it looks like a path through someone's back yard. We double back and I find where I wanted to go without much trouble. It helps that Chris knows the road I'm looking for.

Ricky and I have 40 miles when we got to Charlestown House. I've already gone through both of my water bottles.

As we dismount, a woman walks by and says to me, "I don't know how you guys do it. It's so hot!"

"A long shower after," I tell her.

The folks at Charlestown are biker-friendly. Not only do they gladly fill our bottles; they also offer to put ice in them. Their coffee is good, and this time there isn't vanilla in the cold brew. On every table is a roll of paper towels. I go through more than my share in a futile attempt to dry off. With a bagel oven in the back of the adjoining deli, there isn't much of a temperature difference between inside and outside.

Even though we're riding into the wind on the way back, I'm glad for the breeze.

We get spread out on Hill Road. I stop at one of the tops for some pictures.

We wait in the shade at the bridge near the mill.

I have to stop again when I see the half-hidden "hidden driveway" sign on Walnford Road.

We get spread out again. Stopping to collect everyone outside of Allentown, I decide we should stop at Bruno's for more water. Between Charlestown and Bruno's is only 13 miles, but I've already drained one water bottle.

Bruno's is always good for vintage bike porn. Today he has a 1952 Schwinn Phantom on the floor. A customer had asked him if it were possible to restore the thing. "With enough money I can restore anything," Jim Bruno had replied, and here it is, with shiny rims and a working horn. (The original wheels are behind the bike.)

Behind the Phantom is a new crop of old bikes.

Jim Bruno is bubbling over with details of his recent trip to Jim Thorpe, where he and his partner took a shuttle to the top of a rail trail and spent the day biking back, stopping for pictures and a picnic. He shows us pictures. Tom and I are sold.

Out front was an array of beach cruisers.

We get spread out again after the I-195 overpass on Route 539. I am taking the long way back to the park, opting for Perrineville Road instead of Gordon. Somewhere in there, Chris disappears.

When we turn onto Perrineville, Tom heads straight for home instead. We find some shade to stop in so I can call Chris. He'd taken Gordon to get out of the heat.

Andrew doesn't go back to the park with us either, heading towards home on Edinburg Road instead. That leaves me and Ricky to check in with Chris. In the few minutes we stabd by his car we start to roast. The headwind through the park, which alternates between hot and cooler, helps with the heat a little.

There's yard work to do when I get home at 1:30, but I don't do it. After I clean off and stuff some food in my face, I plop down next to Jack in front of the TV, and we catch up on late-night political snark.

When I look up again, it's dark outside. The rain comes soon after.

Sunday morning is cooler. I down some cold brew and hit the road on Kermit at 7:10 a.m. I don't know why I'm wearing the second pair of small shorts. It was a stupid choice.

Plain Jim has a good crowd today: Dr Lynne and Bill, Prem, Bob, and Steven S. With 18 miles in me, I ought to eat something, so I down a couple of Shot Bloks. They have caffeine in them, which I don't really need right now, but whatever.

Jim has his usual Bagel Barn stop planned. Bob suggests we try Thomas Sweet, a little farther up Route 206, instead. They have a bakery as well as ice cream, and they roast their own beans. Bob thinks he can get us into the shopping center without getting any of us killed.

We get spread out on East Mountain Road, as we always do. At the intersection with Route 601 I take pictures of the clouds, because there can't be a blog post if there aren't any pictures.  (Again, no edits. This new camera is aces.)

It's the longer route today, which I hadn't realized. At mile 35 I'm hungry. We're only a few miles from the rest stop, but I know not to wait. I down the last two Shot Bloks.

When we get to where Route 518 crosses Route 206, we take a left, turn into the first driveway, and hop onto a short stretch of sidewalk that gets us to the shopping center entrance. 

Unlike the Bagel Barn, Thomas Sweet is not packed. We're far from the only ones there (and those who are appear to be quite settled in), but there's more than enough space for us in the air-conditioned shop. Service is fast. Not thinking about it, I ask for a large cold brew.

Jim has himself a massive ice cream cone. "TEW is going to be jealous," I warn him. 

"I know she is," he says, and, with one hand on his camera and the other on the cone, takes a picture of it.

My plan is to go home from here. The only question is how to do it without riding the wrong way on Route 206 back to the intersection. Bob says I can cut through the parking lot and walk my bike over a berm to the next one. Nah. I ride with the group on the shoulder of 206 instead, breaking off in a few hundred yards to a side street that I know will intersect with another side street that will get me back to 518 in the middle of Rocky Hill.

I say my goodbyes and immediately realize three things: there are little hills back here; I've had far too much caffeine; and my shorts are completely wrong for a long ride on a humid day. 

When I get home I have to mow the lawn before I clean off. Then I do the laundry. When the offending shorts come out of the wash I throw them in the drier, which one isn't supposed to do, hoping that they'll degrade a little. When they come out I put them in the commuting pile, where I'll only need them seven miles at a time.