Schvitzing and Wincing

Lambertville Headquarters Road

5 July 2020

My back hurts. Like, prescription, topical NSAID hurts. I've lived with this L5/S1 herniation for a decade now. Most of the time I feel nothing. Then, usually in the middle of the summer, I'll maybe skip a PT session or two, pile on a few stressful days at work, then go out for a couple of hard days on the bike, and remember why I shouldn't skip my stretches.

That was this weekend. Plus the relative humidity was up around a zillion percent. If you don't know what schvitzing is, you either didn't grow up near New York or haven't had the pleasure of a summer day on Northeast Corridor. Go look up the word. I'll wait.

When I left the house Saturday morning to ride to the park, I was dry for about four miles. The headband around my neck that was serving as my mask would have to go somewhere else if I were to keep it dry. I wrapped it around my braid.

Tom promised us a short and easy route because we'd have hills to contend with tomorrow. We started at 8:00 a.m. to avoid the worst heat of the day.

On our way to Roy's we passed a horse farm on Harvey Road. I'd never seen so many in one place so I stopped for pictures.

Roy's was open (takeout only, no bathrooms), as was the hair salon next door (but not they gym that seemed to occupy the same space). Music was blasting from inside the salon. Outside, they'd set up a table with masks, hand sanitizer, and forms for customers (one at a time inside) to fill out. Before anyone could enter, they had to have their temperature taken.

Bob bought a gallon of water for the rest of us — Tom, Jack H, Ricky, and me — to share. I bought a little container of watermelon and grapes. That hit the spot.

We went north through the Assunpink, stopping at the lake. The sky was clouding over, making the water look a murky grayish-brownish-green.

Ricky split off when we got out of the Assunpink. Tom left when we reached Route 539. Bob and Jack H went back to the picnic area on their own after I left at Old Trenton Road. I got back home soaked with sweat, but I couldn't take care of that until I got a picture of Moxie first.

When I spend a long time pedaling without a break, my hamstrings get tight, and they pull on the muscles near my herniation. The feeling is akin to writer's cramp. A quick stop where I can put both feet on the ground and arch my back usually takes care of it. These days we don't stop much. Our mid-ride breaks are shorter too; sometimes we don't even sit down. Towards the end of Saturday's ride I could feel my back getting tight. I ought to have done a round of PT when I got home, but I didn't. An hour later I felt fine anyway.

Saturday morning we started from Lambertville at 8:30 a.m. It was cooler than yesterday, but the humidity was way up. It was going to be one of those rides that I do because I think I have to in order to stay strong. In 47 miles, Tom had mapped out 2800 feet of elevation gain. I called bitching rights early, just in case.

Fortunately, I knew all of the roads and what lumps and bumps they contained. We started off easy, on Alexauken Creek. Then we turned up Bowne Station, which is a series of increasingly annoying little hills. From there we turned north on Lambertville Headquarters, which is the same thing, only with a picture-worthy view of a farm halfway up,

and a wooded, three-way intersection at the top of the ridge. I turned to look back. The road was damp.

In front of us, the view was shrouded in haze.

Beyond the trees we could see three more ridges.

I told Jim, "I'm going to have to look at a map when I get home." I wanted to know what we were looking at.

What we were looking at, it turns out, is where we were going. Lower Ferry and Ferry cross all three. We continued north, took a turn west at Sky Manor Airport, then continued north on Michelin Corner. We went west again on Airport Road, passing Alexandria Field.

I'd never noticed the runway before because we're usually going in the other direction.

"It's all downhill from here," Tom said.

"No, it's not," I shot back. "Stamets has hills."

And for that, when we got there, Jim and Ricky called him a lying bastard. Jack H simply floated up the asphalt walls, because that's what he does.

The Bridge Cafe in Frenchtown is doing what the Pig and Rojo's are doing: selling coffee from a window they might not ever have tried to pry open until now. We watched groups of riders on hybrid bikes come and go along the canal towpath.

I'd taken my gloves off before getting in line for coffee. When the break was over and I put them on again, they were still soaking wet. I hadn't realized how wet they'd been.

Tom gave us a little break, a few flat miles on Route 29, before signaling a left turn at Fairview. "Asshole!" I hollered, and downshifted. I hadn't been on this road in probably a decade. The last time I had the choice, I offered the group "Fairview or fuck it," and the late Frank A had said, "Fuck it," so we did, and stayed in the valley.

Not today. I remembered that it was a grind. We had a flat-ish stretch at the top, and that's where my back let me know that climbing was fine but coasting wasn't.

Tom's plan was to get mostly back towards the river, then climb to Sandy Ridge to avoid Route 29 between Stockton and Lambertville. The late Joe McBride liked to take that detour. I've always hated it, as it threw in a few hundred feet of unnecessary elevation gain just to avoid a few hundred yards of no shoulder. As we bounced along Muddy Run Road, I told Tom that I might end up taking the river route home.

As we approached the covered bridge, peer pressure got to me. I said, "I can't be known as Iron Balls Lynch if I don't take the hilly route." Unbeknownst to me, however, Jim had already put in a vote for taking our chances on Route 29, and Tom had seconded the motion.

So we turned down Lower Creek instead, which made me happy, because it's slightly downhill and very pretty. Route 29 wasn't bad either, partly because it was a holiday, and partly because we're not completely out of lockdown yet. [As of 5 July, NJ's Rt has risen to 1.01. Don't fuck this up, people.]

Turns out the distance is the same no matter which of the two routes we take, and we saved ourselves 250 feet of climbing, which is totally fine by me, because when I got home and walked Miss Piggy to the door, my back still hurt.

I did some extra time on the inversion table and went to bed pain-free. I knew, though, that if I were to take Kermit to Griggstown and follow Jim's group to Hopewell tomorrow, I'd be in a world of hurt grinding up Princeton Avenue to get back home. I emailed him to let him know I'd meet him in Griggstown but would bail in Princeton.

And that's what I did, making the journey an out-and-back affair. I was already soaking wet when I caught up with Dave H on Canal Road. He was going a little faster than I'd been going, which woke my back out of slumber.

At least I got to say hello to Madhu, who Jim and I are actively recruiting for Slugship, and caught up with Dr Lynne, who I hadn't seen since last summer, before the pain started to creep down my leg. I bailed at Harrison Street, hoping to make it home before my toes went numb.

I peeled off my wet clothes, but there was still a lawn to mow. Sometimes, when my back hurts, it helps to walk it off, to loosen things up. I thought the 20 minutes it takes to cut the grass in our little yard would do the trick. It didn't.

I showered and did a full round of PT, which requires, among other things, that I lie on my back, on the floor, with a belt wrapped around one foot, which I hold in the air and pull towards my head. The cats love this. They get to nose around my face, purr in my ears, and maybe even gnaw on the leather if they're in the mood. It helped a little, but, in the end, I had to resort to the NSAID.

This will take a day or two to subside. I haven't had more than two days in a row of rest since January. It's probably time for my traditional summer week away from exercise. Drat.