Van Dyke Road, North of 518
5 April 2020
I hadn't been in the hills for a few weeks. I came up with a dopey little route that would stay relatively close to home, be relatively short, and get a little bit of elevation in. I picked roads I hadn't been on in a while. When we stick close to home, we get to noodle about on roads we usually skip.
One of these roads was Elm Ridge. Back in the Friday night days we used to ride it sometimes. There used to be potholes enough that we eventually gave up on it. The speed limit here is 50 mph and there's not much shoulder either. It's been paved recently. There was, of course, no traffic this morning.
I was eastbound, almost at the end, when a cyclist in red, coming from the opposite direction, riding a black Surly, gave a double-ding of his brass bell. I swung around. "What are you doing all the way out here?"
Plain Jim was out for a 40-something mile ride and heading toward Pennington. I ditched my planned route, pulled on my headband-mask, and followed from a distance well outside Jim's respiratory trail.
There's been some debate online about whether we should be riding at all, given that any injury could land us in an overburdened hospital. The standard six-foot social distance rule doesn't apply when one is riding in someone else's slipstream; a six-bike distance is the minimum at the speed Hill Slugs travel. Jim, being extra cautious, stayed farther behind me than I behind him whenever we swapped position after stopping at intersections. We talked from opposite sides of the street, Jim telling me where we were going next.
On our way down Wargo, a group of six cyclists approached, two up front and four clustered some distance behind. They were not anything close to six feet apart, let alone six bike lengths. From their attire — fluorescent yellow jackets — we suspected they might have been Cyclepaths. I'm calling them out on their bad behavior. We're all in this together. Obey the Cone of Snot.
Jim is getting better at figuring his way around the Hill Slug home turf. I'm learning how to navigate the roads up in Usual Suspect territory. I told him where I'd gone yesterday, past Colonial Park. He'd been there too, and got out right quick. "It was packed," he said. "People were not staying away from each other." Great.
We were stopped on Fairway Drive, talking across the street from each other. Jim unwrapped the bandanna he had around his left wrist and tied it across his face instead. "Your mask is a good idea," he said. It was more than an attempt to protect ourselves and each other, he added. "It shows you're in this for real." Like religious attire, he said, it's more than inward belief; it's an outward display. "I hadn't thought of it that way," I replied.
We rode through the center of Hopewell, stopping in front of Boro Bean because it was open and Jim wanted a picture. We continued on Route 518 towards Hollow Road.
We had a tailwind. A skinny cyclist on a white bike blew past me without a word, tucked into the shoulder in front of me, then flew out past Jim without acknowledging his presence. This is typical racer-type behavior, and normally I wouldn't even have noticed it. These days, though, nearly everyone is waving to everyone else, be they walkers or runners or cyclists.
Jim turned off of Hollow at Camp Meeting. I continued straight up the road, grinding up Servis because I needed the work, then turning west onto Long Hill. I stopped on Ridge to text Jack that I'd be later than planned, and to stuff half a Balance bar into my face. The skinny cyclist passed me again, not even calling out the customary "You okay?" when one sees a stopped rider. Passed twice by the same person: that's slow.
My dopey little route included taking Van Dyke from Stony Brook, so that's what I did. I knew there was a big hill in there somewhere. It's been a while.
Before the hill, though, there's this painting on the side of a barn:
Painted above the Buddha's head were the words, "Self is for the foolish man."
I took pictures of the road in both directions. There's a hill no matter which way you look.
The reward for the climb is bombing downhill on the other side of 518. I turned onto Crusher, which has also been paved recently.
Whenever I'm on Crusher Road I look for that gall on that tree across from the farm with the cows, sheep, and goats. Half of it fell off not long ago.
I got back home with just under 40 miles and enough elevation to make my legs feel as if I'd done a little something.
I don't know how good I'm going to be at this solo riding thing if I alter course every time I run into someone I know. Seeing Jim today made the ride much better. Seeing the Insane Bike Posse yesterday made that ride much better. Even though we didn't really talk, seeing them in person made a big difference. I'm glad we have Zoom and email and all the other social media noise. As much as humanity gets on my last nerve, I'd make a terrible hermit.
No comments:
Post a Comment