New York City through Masts, Lower New York Bay
10 October 2021
Last Saturday, Tom had a ride listed that would go from Monmouth Battlefield State Park to Sandy Hook. Depending on the wind and crowds, we'd follow the bike path some of the way to the tip of the peninsula. He listed the ride as 55-65 miles. That's what I was mentally prepared to do up until the night before.
Ricky sent us an email saying he'd be adding 12 miles each way by starting from his house. Bob said he'd do it, adding the delightful typo "Rickety" in response. Well, okay, Blob. If you and Rickety are in, I am too. If I could get enough sleep.
I got just about enough sleep and drove eastward towards the low sunrise to Ricky's house in Monroe. I hadn't seen his wife, Cheryl, nor their beyond-cute-faced dog, Murphy, since one dark night in the first Covid summer, when we'd been outside with Tom, comet watching.
We were a mile out of Rickety's neighborhood when I realized I'd forgotten to turn my cyclecomputer on. My GPS was on, though, and for the rest of the ride I'd be recording two different numbers.
We rolled out along Route 522, something one can only do in relative peace early on a Saturday morning. Blob realized he'd left his water bottles in his car. We pulled into a deli in Englishtown, where he bought some kind of juice that would fit into his bottle cages.
At the battlefield parking lot, where Jim, Ming, Eric, and Luis had driven in, Tom blessed us with the Holy Kickstand.
We headed northeast, taking a loop through Bell Works in Holmdel, past impossibly large houses and the War of the Worlds Martian water tower. Tom calls it a transistor, but I read War of the Worlds before I ever saw a transistor, so Martian it is.
When we'd first left the battlefield, we went north on Wemrock Road. The sun was a little higher now, and it sent shadows of the cornfield onto the road. Our shadows mixed with the crop's, and, had we not been somewhere I couldn't stop, I'd have taken a dozen pictures of our shadows. Instead, I had to wait until we were somewhere east of Bell Works, stopped at a light, next to a chain-link fence. It's not nearly as interesting, and I'll be forever kicking myself for not turning my handlebar-mounted safety camera on when I had the chance.
Then we were made to ride through the parking lot of Circus Wines, home of the giant, drunken clown sign that ought to be enough to swear people off alcohol forever.
Somewhere in here, from Holmdel to the shore, were hills. Not big ones, but lots of hard rollers and grades that made me glad for Kermit's rear 34 teeth.
Our rest stop was at a Wawa in Leonardo. No, not the Quick Stop. That would have been cool though. Maybe next time, if they can assure us they are open. If I'd done my research in advance, I might have been able to persuade Tom to ride a few blocks to the east. As it was, it took me several minutes to figure out why the town name Leonardo rang a bell.
From there, it was onto the Henry Hudson Trail (some signs said "Bayshore Trail"), where we started at the northern terminus in Atlantic Highlands. Some of it is paved, some of it crushed gravel.
I remembered to turn the video camera on. Here are a couple of snippets, which I have to reduce in quality and keep short in order to avoid a cumbersome YouTube upload:
I did stop for real photos too. This is near the head of the trail:
We could see New York City through the masts of the sailboats docked in the Lower New York Bay between us and Sandy Hook.
There were some cairns along the shore:
We rode onto Sandy Hook and started up the trail. I didn't think to turn my video camera on until we'd passed all the scenic spots. We did stop for beach photos though.
I tried to zoom in on the Verrazano Narrows bridge and got a flock of birds instead:
Still attempting to compensate for the missed cornfield shadows, I played with railing shadows instead:
The bike path crosses the main road near the northern end. It continues up to the old barracks, but we turned around here instead.
In our attempt to get off the peninsula, we were stopped at the drawbridge over the Shrewsbury River. There are two sets of gates on either side of the road, both manually operated. I scooched to the front to get pictures.
A sailboat was the last of three boats to pass through.
The mast is peeking up through the gap, lower center.
We made our way through a headwind to a pizzeria in Little Silver. Covid had reduced their selection to nothing I'd want to eat, but I was hungry. I opted for garlic knots, because all I wanted right now was bread, and scraped off the greasy goo. Other people ate pizza. I don't know how they do that and continue to ride without throwing up.
Onwards through Colts Neck.
Rickety, Blob, and I were nearing 70 miles. My entire right leg started to hint at cramping. I begged for a quick break, sat in the grass, swallowed two electrolyte tablets with water, and got up again, cramp-free for the rest of the ride.
On the outskirts of Freehold, Rickety and Blob asked me if I would mind turning the ride into a century. If not, we'd come in at 87 miles. What was an extra 13 after all that? Ya gotta dance with them what brung ya, so I said, "If I can stop somewhere for a banana and orange juice." I was out of food and nearly out of water. Rickety figured we could swing by his house to remedy that.
When Tom's group turned left to do battle with the orchard traffic on Wemrock Road, we continued straight along Route 522. Rickety lit on the idea that we could stop at the same Englishtown deli again. I went straight for the bananas, and, while there wasn't any orange juice to be had, I found something else that did the trick. We'd made it there in the nick of time; the shop keepers were cleaning up for the day.
To squeeze out the extra miles, we rode through some of the familiar Cranbury ride roads like Tracy Station, Federal, and Union Valley. Rickety decided to take us through Thompson Park in Jamesburg, and the approach felt like the end of the fabled Pumpkin Patch Pedal centuries.
The sun was low now, casting long shadows again. We'd been at this all day.
At this point, we were close to a hundred miles. Rickety swung through the park along a road I was pretty sure I'd never seen before, and I think I hallucinated a zoo. Rickety assured me there really is a small zoo there, but when I went to the video (my camera had switched itself on and off several times by now, probably getting errant signals from the GPS, which it was mounted next to), I did not see a zoo. Do you see a zoo? At the very end of the video, you can hear me asking if there's a zoo, and you can see Rickety turn his head to answer "yes."
When we got out of the park and across into Rickety's neighborhood, I started calling out the miles. Not the ones on my GPS, which were correct, but the ones on my cycle computer, which was a mile short. That would be the one that would count, because reasons. Only when my little Cat Eye computer read 100 did we stop.
We hung out inside for a bit, rehydrating, relaxing, and eating grilled brussels sprouts with our fingers. It was so late when I got home that, after my shower, I changed straight into my pajamas.
I hadn't planned on a century, and I hadn't been prepared for it. I'm not fast at recovery either, and hadn't planned on riding the next day. But by mid-morning the stiffness in my legs gave way to the desire to roll around a bit outside. I did a short recovery ride, avoiding anything that vaguely looked like a hill.
I got my flu shot on Tuesday. The lymph nodes around my left shoulder were still tender on Friday night, but I'd listed a hilly ride for Saturday anyway. I had 8 takers, 7 of whom showed up. The 8th was someone I'd never heard of who never bothered to cancel. We ride leaders universally hate that.
Trying to avoid the missing road segments on Stony Brook and Alexauken Creek Road, I led the crew to Lambertville via Province Line Road. Tom had a new wheel set, which seemed to be doing him some good. John K was on his snazzy, new, chrome-lugged Yashujiro Admire, which was far too clean.
I was in mid-conversation with John when I heard David behind me utter the words "Northeast Harbor." That was it. He and I talked Maine for far too long. He knows Portland and MDI, and we've both had thoughts about living up there. It's all fantasy, of course. I haven't got the money.
I hadn't thought to check if Rojo's was open; it wasn't. The entire building was empty, the front covered in plastic and paint. The warehouse had flooded. (A quick check at their website only states that the Lambertville location is closed, with no other information.) We doubled back to Union Coffee, which, despite its proximity to the sidewalk, has a bike rack, friendly staff, good coffee, tasty carbs, and a clean bathroom. We'll be coming back.
It looked like Lambertville is gearing up for its traditional Halloween decor, too. Ms Dragan has her sculptures out again. We'll have to go back in a few weeks to really take it in.
Usually I try to put the worst hills in the first half of the ride. This time I was an asshole and stuck Harbourton-Woodsville in at the end. I know that this crew can take it. Some of them were even planning to do the Covered Bridges ride today. It's raining as I write this. I wonder if they went.
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