From 60 to 30

 

High Water on Delaware River at Washington Crossing

26 December 2020

I was embarrassingly late for Tom's Christmas Eve ride out of Mercer County Park. I left home with 8 minutes less than the half hour I needed. The headwind helped not at all, and I skipped the shortcut through the park because of all the snow we'd had. Tom, Pete, and Sarah were still there when I turned into the parking lot, which completely surprised me. 

"Whatever you're wearing," I said, "Take half of it off." When I'd left the house it was 37 degrees. We'd be cycling in 60 before the morning was out. I ditched my cap and, a few minutes later, my glove liners.

A big storm was on its way. We'd have clear skies until sometime after noon, but the stiff southeast wind was going to kick in for real around 11:00.

Wisely, Tom's plan was to go south to New Egypt. 

On an easterly tack, with the wind pushing us sideways, somewhere in the vicinity of the Assunpink, Sarah spotted a bald eagle flying over our heads. I caught the tail end of the bird as it flew south.

We didn't stop for long in the Scott's parking lot in New Egypt. The sky was clouding over and the wind was picking up. At least it helped push us back. 

I learned how Beaker handles on the downhill side of an overpass in a 35-mph gust. I kept the shiny side up.

There was so much road splut from the melting snow that, as soon as I got home, I hosed Beaker off and threw my clothes straight into the wash.

A slight drizzle had begun as I drove off to WheelFine to pick up Rowlf, who had been camped out there for about a month, waiting for the garage bike tuneup rush to die down. Michael's new landlord had the building painted gray, wiping out the iconic team stripes that Michael had earned when he built them winning wheels. Not being into racing, I have no idea which team it was or when, but that doesn't matter.

"I took off so much sand and dirt," he said, "your bike is a pound lighter."

"Nothing can make that bike lighter."

He didn't like the look of the long-valved stems I'd had on, so he switched them and gave me back the tubes. He'd cleaned up the chrome as best he could, too. All that was left was the finishing tape for the bar wrap. He didn't want to choose a color without me. We picked white, which brought out the white outline on the head badge logo. 

This is what Michael does: OCD to the end. It's why I take my Italian bikes to him for work.

After I paid him, he gave me a pair of sunglasses he got as a promotion for something. The lenses are clear but darken in the light. Never pass up a free pair of sunglasses.

Of course I spent an hour in the shop, inching towards the door but never quite getting there before the next story began. I finally left with the bike, the glasses, and a warning not to squeeze the levers of disc brakes when the wheel is out or you'll never get the calipers open again. I don't have disc brakes, but if I wind up with a gravel bike, I probably will.

The rain began soon after I got home. It turned our back yard into a soggy sponge. A pond formed on one side, divided by our neighbor's fence. We heard thumps in the night. On Christmas morning, the snow was gone.

Ron listed a towpath ride for Boxing Day. It was 24 degrees when I packed Grover into the car. To make up for my shameful lateness on Christmas Eve, I got to Washington Crossing 20 minutes early.

Good thing I did, because the damn front brake cable came out of its housing on the lever, again, during the drive over, and I had to mess with it with bare fingers for a solid ten minutes before I managed to re-seat the thing and get front braking back. 

For those keeping score at home, this is the third nagging problem with the front end. The other two are the skewer that's barely long enough to hold the wheel, requiring me to screw the cap down tight when I take the wheel off, lest I find myself hunting for the spring on the carpet, in my car, or on the ground; and the quick-release by the brake pads that requires a special finger-dance and which, over time, shreds the cable.

"I am so done with this bike," I said. When the day comes to hand it over to the Trenton Bike Exchange, I'm going to warn them that whoever they sell it to should never take the front wheel off.

Ron was on a new gravel bike. "I ordered it in July," he said. "I got it two weeks ago."

We went north, into the wind, the towpath a little mushy as the sun warmed it. I was working hard to keep up. When we stopped because another rider was having trouble shifting, I took the opportunity to raise my saddle another centimeter. Much better. I also took a picture of the canal while we were stopped. 

A father was wheeling his two-year-old in a carriage near us; he'd stopped to give us space for the repairs. "I like your Grover," he said.

"Thanks for knowing who Grover is!" I answered. 

"I love the Muppets," he said. "My son loves Elmo," and, sure enough, the kid had an Elmo in the stroller with him. 

The guy was too young though, to know that Miss Piggy was not one of the OG Muppets. "Nah," I said, "She's second generation."

Repairs completed, we moved on, stopping again north of Lambertville to figure out how much farther we wanted to go.

Ken G and I spent most of the ride talking about all the things. We were deep into disc brakes when Ron told us we'd overshot our planned Stockton turnaround point. 

When we got back to town, some of the guys wanted coffee. I'd have preferred not to stop. I went insid the store to warm up, use the bathroom, and buy a brownie, which I stashed in my pocket for later.

I strolled across the street to get a picture of a groovy tavern door.

The forecast high for the day was 30 degrees. We hadn't gotten there, but the sun beating on the frozen towpath had brought the ground to above freezing. We'd have ten miles back in flying gray clay.

At least we had a tailwind as we pushed through the sludge.

Ken G and I were yakking away again when we heard the crash behind us. Ken W and Chris were on the ground. Ken didn't move as Chris picked himself up. Something about ice. Ken slowly rolled over, holding onto his left shoulder. With his right hand he stopped the emergency alert on his GPS and slowly returned to his feet. I thought for sure he'd busted his collarbone, but he assured us he was fine, and got back on his bike.

He must have been loaded with adrenaline, because he was so far off the front that Ken sprinted up to ride with him, just in case.

Ron and I were in the middle, with Chris, and the other guy whose name I never caught, riding slowly behind. Chris, it turned out, had done a number on his back when he went down.

"Is this ride worth a blog?" Ron asked as we returned to Washington Crossing.

"It is now," I said.

The water was high on the Delaware, and moving fast. Large branches sped by, and, once, an entire tree.

I was splattered with towpath clay. Our frames were coated in it.

Ron looked at my Camelbak. "20 dollars at REI," he said.

"For what?"

"A fender."

"What's the fun in that?"

Despite being in the sun, the hose I normally use was still frozen. It took four buckets of indiscriminately-sloshed hot water to rid Grover of his crust. Everything else went straight into the wash.