Return to My Favorite Puddle

Round Valley Reservoir, Lebanon Township, NJ

4 August 2019

NOAA's daily forecast said one thing; their hourly forecast said another. Maybe we'd get rained on. In the small hours Plain Jim bailed. At 7:00 a.m. Tom posted that the ride was on. 

As I drove up Canal Road (which felt weird, considering how many times I've pedaled up it this summer), I passed through patches of fog. I arrived at the Griggstown Causeway stupid early. I'm glad I did, because it gave me time to get myself and Miss Piggy ready before getting the camera out.

There was fog in the field by the parking lot.

The canal was suitably foggy as well.

As I was snapping away, I heard the familiar double ding of Plain Jim's bell. Anticipating rain, he'd said he'd be out on his own for a quick ride. When I turned around, Jack H was pulling up.

"You coming with us after all?" I asked Jim. He said he'd do a few miles, then turn towards home for breakfast. Jack, still nursing a hairline fracture in his foot, is supposed to be taking it easy. For him that means anything but hills. He'd driven to Pennington and biked over here. He'd stick with us until the hilly part.

I got one more picture while the two of them chatted away.

We returned to the lot, where the fog was gone and where Tom and Ricky were waiting. JeffX, who had parked in the lot near the river, rode in on his folding bike. Sergei, a Cranbury fastboy, signed in too. Well, it looked like today was going to be another one of those wait-for-OLPH-at-the-top-of-the-hill rides.

Tom led us through Hillsborough for a flat, six mile, warm-up. For a while it looked like one of  Jim's Sunday rides. "Your'e going to stop at Thomas Sweet for breakfast, aren't you?" I asked Jim. "No. I'm going home," he promised. Tom even took Jim's secret sidewalk shortcut, hoping to foul up Good Dog's navigation. But my GPS didn't miss a beat.

Our first hill was Grandview. For me it isn't the monster it used to be; it's barely a hill at all compared to the stuff around it. Still, I decided to take it easy and save my energy for the climb to the reservoir. I'd been lifting furniture, carrying boxes of books, and biking to work for the past few days. My legs were not anything near fresh. 

Jim turned around at the top. Jack H, the one who isn't supposed to be climbing, stayed with us the rest of the way up Hollow and Long Hill. We sent him home on Ridge Road and continued down Lindbergh.

I continued to hang in the back of the pack. 

Tom and I both stopped for pictures at the Cider Mill bend.

"It's gonna be one of those days where we get to the reservoir and can't see anything," Tom said. 

At 20 miles we stopped at the Wawa where Summer Road meets Route 202 for a quick water break. Then we did the usual Lazy Brook-Locust-Barley Sheaf thing to get to Pleasant Run. We took the shady route, up Springtown and Dreahook, in the shadow of Cushetunk Mountain. 

Good Dog, always helpful, beeped at me to let me know that there was a hill ahead. She'd been doing that all morning. 

The road markings for the Jersey Man Tri are getting more elaborate. The climb to the reservoir from the south is a three-part haul: Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear. Now, each section has its name, spray-painted by hand, under a parade of stenciled bears. There's even a label for the little climb at the very top, that, after the other three, barely rates. It's called Pre-Baby Bear, which is weirdly unsettling. Wouldn't Preemie Bear sound better?

Anyway, we climbed up the bears (where I wasn't last*, for a change) and, following the helpful spray paint, slowed at the turn towards the boat launch.

The view was still slightly hazy, but not nearly as bad as we'd thought it might be.

I took this picture with Maine in mind.

 

(No wonder I like Round Valley so much.)

There were kayakers and a stand-up-paddleboarder on the water.

When we rode past the berm on the northwest side I stopped to try, once more, to get a picture that would capture how high this man-made dam is.

Across the road again, I pressed my camera through a link in the fence to zoom in on a fishing boat.

We stopped at Jerry's in Whitehouse Station. Most of the conversation was about JeffX's randonneuring. There wasn't a thing he said that made me want to try it.

Somehow there were only 20 miles between us and Griggstown. They went by quickly, albeit annoyingly, because, while there were no big hills, there were a lot of rollers, and the sun, now fully out, was turning us all into sweaty piles of goo.

On my drive home I stopped at the Bagel Barn for a few dozen. It was 2:30, half an hour before closing, and the place was empty. I'd never seen it that way before. Too hungry to wait until I got home, I dug into the bag while driving. I littered the passenger seat with sesame seeds, but that bagel was the best thing I'd tasted all day. I finished off the morning's cold brew too.

That was a mistake. I knew better than to caffeinate after 2:00 p.m. but I did it anyway. Instead of turning in early, I stayed up late, blogging, and then I couldn't sleep.

When the alarm went off at 5:45 a.m. I shut it off and emailed Jim that I was wimping out. I didn't fall back asleep though. Ten minutes later I emailed him again to say that I'd probably be driving to his ride.

I was ready to go with time enough to take Miss Piggy instead of my car. It might be a painful mistake, but his route would go through Princeton on the way to Hopewell. I could leave the ride anywhere from the end of Canal Road to Carter Road. If I were to drive I would be committing to the whole ride.

My speed was in the gutter through Princeton. At this rate I'd get to Six Mile just in time.

Then I caught up with the tandem on the nasty little hill to Kingston. They were part of a weekend tandem rally. We were headed in the same direction, so we rode together to Canal Road, at which point they took off. I glued myself to their rear wheel.

19 mph. 20 mph. When the stoker needed a break and they slowed, I felt as if I'd been sprung from a slingshot. They caught up again and resumed the pull at 21.7 mph.

For four miles we flew down Canal Road. Then they turned at Griggstown, leaving me to haul my own weight the rest of the way.

I no longer had to worry about being late, so when I got to the farm that I've been wanting to take pictures of, I did.

I arrived at Six Mile with time to spare and an average speed I knew wasn't mine. 

Jim had quite the crowd. There were the Usual Suspects — me, Ricky, Bob, and Steve — as well as Gary W and Pete G, (who had ridden in from Pennington). And, much to our surprise and delight, Randonneur Ron with his bespoke Hanford steel frame, and Winter Larry.

We turned back down Canal Road. Now there were tandems coming at us every few minutes. Jim had barely time to finish double-dinging his bell before he'd have to do it again.

River Road on the Kingston end is finally going to be paved. You know it's bad when the milled surface is easier to navigate than the potholes were.

There was enough left in my legs to handle the flat stuff. On the hills I fell back but managed to stay within the pack. Each time we reached a spot where I could have headed for home, I didn't. I stayed with the group all the way to Hopewell. 

We took Carter Road to get there. Now that the surface is smooth again, the descent is loads of fun. It's also about a mile long. I dreaded the return trip. 

Our stop was at Boro Bean. For 10:00 a.m. the place was empty. We actually got a table outside. 

A little tailwind helped me get back up Carter Road. 

I should sleep well tonight.

(*One of our number took it upon himself to say, "Very good!" when I spun past him. I turned my head and said, "Shut up! That's really, really, patronizing!" "No it isn't!" he said. "Yes, it is." So that's two #MeToo moments in as many weeks. Boomers need schooling. He passed me, though, because he can, and because he can't have a fat chick be in front of him.)