Confluence of Lehigh and Delaware Rivers, Easton, PA
14 July 2021
19 miles on February 7.
25 miles on March 6.
50 miles on April 4.
And for the rest of this year, Fozzie has sat in the back room with Kermit and Miss Piggy, often glanced at, never chosen.
100 miles on July 10 seemed like the thing to do. I lubed Fozzie's chain, found some spare bottle cages, and prepped myself mentally for what I knew would be a grueling towpath century. Ken W had listed it for 40 and 100 miles.
The previous week, Jack H and Pete had ridden south on the Lehigh Valley Trail and then the Delaware and Lehigh canal path from Jim Thorpe all the way to Washington Crossing. From them, I knew it wouldn't be easy, and I had a fuzzy recollection that some of the way would be less than well-groomed.
8 of us registered, 4 for the hundred-mile ride from Washington Crossing to Easton and back.
To get the first 20 miles, Ken W led a guy who might have been named Brian, Len C, and me south into Trenton first. At Cadwalader Park, we turned off onto a city road and carried our bikes up a flight of concrete steps to a pedestrian overpass that got us across Route 29.
We walked our bikes across the Calhoun Street Bridge. The Delaware River reflected the sky to the north.
The city was in shadow to the south.
All across the railing were spider webs loaded to the hilt with gnats.
Ken set the pace. It felt fast but it wasn't. That's the mindfuckery of gravel riding. Fozzie is a one-by, 40 x 11-48. I can only map it onto my other bikes by feel, and that only goes so far on gravel. I kept the gear low and my cadence high, most of the time only using two cogs on the cassette, somewhere in the middle. Knowing I wouldn't be able to coast, I took advantage of every underpass to give my legs a two-second break.
They guy who might have been Brian left us at New Hope.
Len inevitably took the lead once we got rolling up the PA side again. When we encountered the first flock of geese, he uttered a series of low barks to get them out of the way. I followed close behind with, "Excuse me!" as they hissed at us.
Most of the towpath was surprisingly dry considering how much rain we'd had in the past few days. But there were spots, especially between Stockton and Bulls Island, where we had no choice but to ride on the edges of mud puddles. Our legs became caked with dirt in short order.
When we reached the flooded spillway, we stopped for pictures. I don't know why I chose to walk across. Riding across would have cleaned off my legs. Instead, I sloshed through. The cool water felt good, but my feet were soaked all the way to Frenchtown.
As we approached Bulls Island, where we were going to cross to the NJ side, Jackie P approached. She wanted to do more miles than the 40-mile group, but not the full hundred, so she'd gone south to meet us. Ken motioned us onto the road, to the Lumberville General Store, for our first rest stop. Jackie went ahead for some more miles. I hadn't been to the Lumberville General Store since the early 2000s, before it closed and reopened.
The Bulls Island to Frenchtown stretch of the towpath is delightful. It's been so long that I'd forgotten it's under a canopy of tall trees.
We were supposed to meet the rest of the group in Frenchtown, but they'd gone ahead to Upper Black Eddy for breakfast at the Homestead General Store. So we walked across yet another river bridge (I was grateful for the break) and picked up the PA path near the Uhlerstown covered bridge. The 40-mile group, tired of waiting, had gone ahead. We passed right by Homestead without stopping.
It was here that the trail fell to pieces, namely two pieces: two gravel ruts, if we were lucky. Sometimes it was just one. Sometimes one or both would be under water, and we'd try for the grass in between. Sometimes there wasn't room to let riders coming the other way stay on the trail, and we'd both veer off to opposite sides on the grass. Sometimes they'd dismount before we got there, or, if they were walking, duck off into the bushes. We must have looked fierce. I know we looked muddy.
Len had given up on being clean and was now deliberately riding through the mud. He was having a blast, as he always does, because all of this is so easy for him.
Len and I got a little ahead of Ken and Jackie, so we stopped to grab snacks and wait. Len was glad when I snapped a photo of the dead tree across the canal.
Soon after that, we were in Easton, passing under two railroad bridges.
We ended up on an outcrop over the spillway where the Lehigh runs into the Delaware River.
There, also, finally, was the rest of our group.
A ladder and a flight of stairs led to a bunker or something below:
We wound our way over a road and bridge over the Lehigh to get to a Wawa on the other side. The 40-milers left us there. I never had the chance to talk to any of them. At this point, we had gone about 60 miles, all of it ever so slightly, invisibly, uphill.
Then it was back the way we came, over the bridge, down the road, and through the mud-ruts all the way to where the towpath was presentable again in Upper Black Eddy. At least this time we were riding ever so slightly downhill, with a tailwind.
Len and I noticed that the downhill grade was obvious from this direction. The path had dried a little, too. But there were still flocks of geese for him to growl at, and even make up songs about. "You're a mean one, Mister Goose!"
While he sang, I did my best to ignore my growing fatigue. My left cleat was too tight (it had been fine in the cold), which was making clipping out an adventure. Why I didn't adjust it back in Trenton I'll never know. Common sense doesn't go with centuries.
We were 88 miles in when we crossed the bridge into Frenchtown. Fozzie needed his picture taken.
Jackie wanted pictures of our legs. I took one of myself for myself.
Fozzie is a bare (bear?)-bones bike. The frame is aluminum. There are no shocks in the seat post or on the front fork. The wheels are aluminum. By 90 miles, pretty much everything hurt. I knew this would happen going in, so I was mentally prepared.
That didn't keep me from whining, somewhere near Stockton, “My entire spine hurts.”
Len chirped, “My heart rate is 118 and I’m pushing 175 watts! I feel great! I—“
“Len?”
“What?”
“Shut up. With all due respect, shut the fuck up.”
When we got to Titusville, I rolled down to the road along the river to give my back a break and to look at the houses high up on the shore. From where I was, I could hear Len and Ken talking. We got back to the parking lot at the same time. We'd departed at 8:00 a.m. It was now 6:15.
We thanked Ken for the ride. I told him I was glad that I'd done it, but I'd never do it again.
Maybe don't hold me to that?
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