Lockdown Chronicles: Losing It

Kermit reaches 43000 miles. The Coronavirus death toll passes 43000.

26 April 2020

Throughout the lockdown I've done my best to remain level-headed. Sure, those first few weeks were rough. I had to finish up a handful of projects at work after everyone else had been sent home. It hadn't yet been two weeks since Jack was on a NJ Transit train from Newark nor since I'd had my mouth on a communal blowpipe; either one of us could be sick or we could get each other sick. I had to kill off half of my breeding mice. The caseload and death rates were logarithmic. On social media, some of my friends were losing their heads. The level of scientific illiteracy was worse than I'd thought. I tried to remain calm and rational, and, for the most part, succeeded, even as my hands grew raw from all of the scrubbing and anxiety was always lurking in the next hour.

We settled into the background drone of fear. We bought moose-patterned masks on Etsy. I only went food shopping once per week. We ordered supplies online when we could. I set Gonzo on the fluid trainer on the back porch. I settled into a routine of morning Zoom meetings and afternoon cardio and weightlifting workouts.

Weekend bike rides, which kept me sane, social, and slimmer than I would be otherwise, had been cancelled. In its place, Tom set up a recurring Zoom meeting for a handful of his Insane Bike Posse. On Fridays at 7:00 p.m., we hunker down in front of our screens to shoot the shit, catch up on each other's coping strategies, and discuss our upcoming weekend rides.

One of us will have posted a route. "This is where I'll be on Sunday," the email will say. On Friday evening we'll figure out which parking lot along the route will be a good one for all of us to show up at on our own. The challenge for each of us is to map a route to the lot, and to get there at a specified time.

Last Sunday's route was Tom's. He'd be riding past Mercer County park at 9:30 a.m., on his way to New Egypt. I was on my way over when I saw a yellow-clad rider ahead of me. I just missed catching him at the Route 1 traffic light. It wasn't until he was about to turn into the park that I knew for sure it was Pete.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I called out to him. The drive was barricaded.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asked as he circled around behind me.

"A fine, a ticket," I said. Hughes Road and Old Trenton Road were quiet anyway. We turned on Edinburg to get to the East Picnic Area entrance. That was blocked too.

I rode about a bike-length past the barricade. Pete continued in to where Tom was standing and Jack H was circling, about fifty yards inside the park. I shook my head. "Don't try it," I called out.

Woop woop!

Whoops.

The cop got out of his car, mask on, and motioned the guys to get out of the park. I was glad I had my mask on. Pete skedaddled, heading north along his planned route. Tom moved on, too, south towards Old Trenton Road. I asked if we could ride through the park on the road, knowing that the answer would be "no." Jack was asking him some more questions when I turned to go. We both caught up with Tom eventually. I followed him from a safe distance. Jack was hovering closer than either of us were comfortable with, but still not within the usual before-times space.

"What did you ask the cop?" I asked Jack.

"What the fine is. A thousand bucks or imprisonment." Yikes.

The chilly morning was warming up fast. Next to the Trenton-Robbinsville airport, Tom stopped for a strip break. I took some pictures as he worked out how best to deal with his jacket. He ended up tying it loosely around his neck and tucking the bulk of it under his Camelbak.  "I just learned something," I told him.

"Horselets!" We were on Ellisdale Road, heading east, getting a break from the wind.

Tom's goal for the day was to climb Hill Road from the north. At the southern end we were met with a road closed sign at Hutchinson, which we rode straight past, because that's what we do.

The road was closed because the Southern Reliability Link natural gas pipeline — a completely unnecessary pipeline being built solely to get fracked gas out of the ground while it still turns a profit — was going in.

Tom stopped to check his GPS for a detour. Jack and I rode right up to the barrier, because that's what we do. There were two cops parked there. One got out to greet us. I pulled on my mask. Jack asked which pipeline this was. The cop, who wasn't wearing a mask, told Jack what was going on.

"Can we get through?" I asked.

"You can," he said, "but it's full of dirt and rocks and stuff."

I looked at Jack and laughed. As if a little gravel ever stopped us. But Tom had already turned onto the street behind us. One cop had been enough for him today. We turned around and followed him to New Egypt.

There were two cops stopped at a corner in town. We pulled into the empty Scott's parking lot to eat our energy bars.

"I might be dreaming all of this," I said to Tom. I mean, who besides a sleeping brain calls cigarettes "Timeless Time" and "This?"

We didn't hang around long. On the way back I stopped on Meirs Road for some white-barked trees,

and for the tree farm farther up the hill.

Tom left us on Old York Road, going straight while we turned into the wind. It was a slog. I had to keep my mask off to get enough air.

I was crossing Route 130 when Jack H and a truck passed me at the same time. I felt two drops of something hit my face from above. One hit my upper lip.

I panicked. I was furious at myself for not putting my mask on when we reached the intersection. I stopped and pulled out a peroxide wipe. I ran it over my mouth and face twice. What was that? Jack H hadn't coughed or sneezed. Was it sweat? Was it water from the top of his bottle? Had I inhaled coronavirus? Was I now going to infect my husband and kill him?

Jack H had disappeared onto Windsor Road. The rest of my ride was a blur. Jack H had parked at the Goddard School. He called out to me as I rode past. I gave him a thumb up as I passed, but I was a psychological mess.

That didn't stop me from taking pictures of the tulips that had bloomed in my front yard.

When I got inside I told Jack what had happened. He wasn't pleased, of course, but he thought I was overreacting. I guessed we'd know in two weeks if I was now a killer. I took out my phone and emailed Jack H and Tom. I scolded Jack H for not keeping a safe distance and sweating on me. I wrote that I would probably ride solo from now on.

He wrote back right away. "I felt those drops too," he said. "I think it came from the windshield washer of that SUV."

I felt better, and also like a fool. I wrote back to apologize for losing it.

"No problem," Tom answered. "This whole situation has got us all a little anxious and on the edge. We are all going to have our occasional freak out moments so there is nothing to apologize for."

And that's why I keep these guys around.

(It's been 7 days since this incident. I still feel fine, mentally and physically.)