Go Ride in Traffic (or Jim Saves My Ass, or My Kingdom for a Bolt)

 

The New Bridge Formerly Known as Tappan Zee

4 May 2021

I was all set to write a short post about the ride Tom led a week ago. It started in Allentown. Bob and I rode from my house for homebound headwind bragging rights. The purpose of the ride was for Tom to survey the roads in what will soon be his new neighborhood. 

There was a lot of traffic, from the Bakers Basin-Route 1 intersection two miles from my house, to whatever roads we were on two miles from Tom's new house. People must be busting loose now that they've been vaccinated.

I had a bunch of quotes from the ride in my head. Now the only one I remember is when, as we were waiting for a light to change at some busy intersection on the east side of Jackson, Tom pointed down the road to our right and said, "See that light? My new house is about a quarter mile past that." We couldn't go in because the place is gated and he doesn't live there yet, so this was as close as we were going to get. "So now you know where I live," he said.

To which Jim and I both said, "We have no clue where we are," but probably saltier, because I never pass up a chance to drop and F bomb on a bike ride. 

So I thought that was our traffic ride for the year until I carpooled with Tom up to Englewood Cliffs to join Dave H's 20-person Hudson River ride. All seven Slugs were represented. The plan was for Dave to take the fast people, of which there were many, Jim to take the more reasonably-paced ones, of which there were also many, and for Ricky to sweep.

We got to the start, Allison Road Park, 45 minutes early. The sky was sort of murky. We were at the edge of the Palisades, and through the trees we could see the George Washington Bridge to the south.

The first 12 miles were on 9W. I would not have pegged this road to be any biker's first choice, considering the amount of traffic and the speed at which cars fly past. But drivers up there are used to it, because, apparently, all of New York City's cyclists come over here at once to ride on the shoulders. 

I thought we had a strong bike culture here in Central Jersey, but these folks have got it going on! Our group of 20 dissolved into the steady stream. The fast group got so far ahead I lost sight of them. The reasonably-paced group wound up behind me. I ended up doing the first dozen, rolling miles with Tom alone. 

We turned off, finally, into the town of Piermont, where, Dave warned us, cyclists get ticketed for not riding single-file. Not that there was room on the roads for any more than that. On both sides of the main drag, outdoor cafes were infested with cyclists. The houses were charming, but there's no way I could live up there. It's not the cost that would keep me from it; it's the speed. I'm clearly not fast enough to live up there.

On the far edge of town we found a place to take pictures. We couldn't step far off the road, though, for the private property signs warning us away. In the distance, to the north, was the new Tappan Zee Bridge.

Which we got to in a roundabout way, passing north of it, through a neighborhood bike path that met the bridge entrance somewhere past the beginning.

Blue is an interesting choice.

At regular intervals along the span, there are bump-outs with clear plastic walls, benches, and various places one can lean a bike out of the way of pedestrian traffic. The path is on the north side of the bridge.

Strangely, there's no viewing platform directly under the middle span. I stopped anyway.

Our rest stop was on the Tarrytown side of the bridge, at a strip mall with a pizza place (why is it "pizza place" anyway?) and a bagel shop, both with long lines, neither of which I went into. There was a long patio with a few tables. We were able to spread out to keep each other safe.

I muttered something about the traffic. Dave said, "You'll love the Bronx."

Next came the Big Hill that Dave warned us about. It was the sole reason I'd brought Miss Piggy instead of Kermit. I'm glad I did; I needed those low gears to climb out of the Hudson valley. 

Still going north, we got onto a bike path that took us past the Tarrytown Reservoir. There were a few tricky turns that got us onto another path, the North County Trailway, that ran alongside the Saw Mill Parkway. Even though we were in the woods, we were never away from the sound of traffic.

After crossing under I-287, the North County Trailway becomes the South County Trailway. 

It was paved, but that made it worse, because under the asphalt were tree roots, lots of them, barely a foot apart, and little sinkholes we had to swerve around. The group got spread out.

It was after a particularly nasty series of washboard bumps that I heard something go "snap" in my saddle, and the seat tipped back. I pulled over. "Mechanical!" I called out. We were 27 miles in; we had 20 more to go.

Only four other people heard me, two of them being Ricky and Jim. 

One of the two bolts that hold the saddle to the seat post had sheared off, leaving me with a bolt stump. All we had was a few feet of electrical tape that I carry with me. Jim and I tried in vain to maneuver the tape in a way that would hold me, but we knew it wouldn't work. Jim was cursing. I was resigned to walking to the nearest intersection, wherever that might be, and calling a cab back to Allison Road. Gen and Ricky radioed up to Dave to let him know what was going on. 

"Where are we anyway?" I asked.

"Yonkers," Ricky said. That helped but it didn't. All I know is that Yonkers is way north of any part of New York City I know.

Jim said, "Hang on a second," and began to circle his bike. 

Hex wrench in hand, he unscrewed the bolt that holds the spacer cap onto his head tube. "It's purely cosmetic," he said, when Gen and I questioned his destructive maneuver. "It's there to keep the rain out." 

The question was, would this bolt fit my seat clamp, and would it be long enough. With Jim and me working in tandem, we found the answer to be yes and maybe. It certainly didn't go all the way through the barrel nut, but it went through enough that I could shake the seat without anything moving. Within ten minutes, we were on our way.

About a quarter mile on, I saw a motel on the side of the trail at a road crossing. Had I had to walk, I'd've wound up there to wait for a ride. 

We did stop one more time, when I felt the seat getting loose. We hadn't tightened the bolts quite enough. This time it held.

Jim saved my ass.

When, finally, we reached Van Cortlandt Park, the rest of the group was there, waiting. They cheered.

I took a few pictures because we were at a bridge by a lake.

We took a bathroom break here, which I sorely needed, but wouldn't have asked for myself, considering I'd already taken 15 minutes of these people's time.

Down at the pond, a swan chased away a goose. Geese can be nasty, sure, but never piss off a swan.

Then we were out of the park and plum spang in the middle of Bronx traffic. We got separated again, spanning three sets of traffic lights. Then we had to cross an aqueduct on a skinny pedestrian path along a hell-no busy road. It was so narrow that the pedestrians we passed would flatten themselves along the far wall of the bridge span. But graciously, though, because they're apparently used to this sort of thing.

We reconvened on the other side, which took more than a few minutes, as the tail end of the group was three lights behind. This gave me the chance to take a picture of a sneaker dangling from the street sign.

Next was another narrow path, this time switch-backing up to the George Washington Bridge. It was another endless stream of excuse-me-sorrys as we tried to squeeze two-way bike traffic onto a concrete chute with blind curves.

At least there was a bit of a view at the bridge entrance.

That was the only place for photos. 

Crossing the George Washington Bridge by bike is no more pleasant than driving it. There were blind curves around structural supports. There were bikers flying towards us. There were pedestrians with headphones. There was a gray wall, and much netting spread over our heads. There was an endless barrage of traffic noise. 

And then we were back in New Jersey, riding along 9W again, which now seemed like paradise, until the turnoff to Allison Park Road.

Would I do this again? Probably not. But if I did, I'd take Fozzie. He could withstand those tree roots.

*****

About that broken bolt:

One would think that a Cannondale dealer whom I have been working with since the dawn of time would have a replacement socket screw to fit the saddle assembly they themselves put on my bike. One would be wrong.

One would think that a bike shop, run by an eccentric who has every bike part known to mankind, would have a few tucked away in a dusty box somewhere. One would be wrong.

What does one do? Go to a big box hardware store and hope for the best? Perhaps.

But first, one digs through box after box of screws hidden away in a dark behavioral experiment room in the lab. There, one would find what one thinks might be exactly what one needs, thanks to Thorlabs of Franklin Township, Middlesex County.

Then one would go home, triumphant, only to find that the pilfered bolts, the longest in this size that Thorlabs has to offer, are exactly the same size as the too-short one Jim sabotaged his own bike for, because one had erroneously assumed that only the head of the bolt had sheared off. One would be left holding a handful of 30 mm bolts, when what one would need is another 10 mm on top of that.

Fortunately, one would also have snagged a longer bolt of unknown origin, with a flat-head screwdriver end rather than a hex end, just in case, and that bolt would fit.

One would then spend the better part of half an hour online trying to locate a 40 mm, stainless steel, M5 socket head cap screw, and end up shelling out $11 on Amazon for an entire box of assorted M5 socket head cap screws that one would then feel obligated to hand out like candy the next time one encounters a bike part that goes "snap" in the wilds of Yonkers, or Wertsville, or wherever.