April Sky and a Curious Tube

 

Early Spring Sourlands Sky

15 April 2022

I've been trying not to stop for so many pictures on bike rides. This time of year we're sticking to familiar roads anyway; I've got dozens of photos of the usual scenic spots. 

Two weeks ago, I led a ride to Lambertville. The regulars are so familiar with my pre-ride rules spiel that this one became a call-and-response affair, led mostly by Pete G.

"What should we do with our front wheel?" he shouted.

"Guard it with your life."

"What if somebody goes ahead?"

"He's on his own."

"What if we chase that person?"

And on and on until we managed to get through the whole thing.

With Rojo's gone, we've been rolling down to Union Coffee. There's very little room on the sidewalk for us, but there is a bike rack. The coffee is decent and the snacks are worthy.  They even have a "cyclists welcome" sticker by the door.

The sky started out clear, dark blue that day. By the end of the ride, it was pale blue and clouding over. The next day brought rain.

A week later, rain was in the forecast again. Tom listed a ride into the Pinelands anyway, and nine of us went along. The clouds to the south were dramatic, in shades of white and gray, low in the sky. We were going along at a fair clip on roads that didn't favor stopping, so I didn't. 

Not until we crossed through Fort Dix did I have a chance to take some pictures. Now that we were directly under it, the view wasn't nearly as good. 

To the west, steel gray.

To the east, better weather.

Looking northeast across the lake in Browns Mills, I found some of the drama:

We were stopped for some reason on our way to the rest stop Wawa in Vincentown. Maybe we were regrouping at an intersection. We were into the wind now, and getting spread out.

From the Wawa parking lot looking south (I think), there was a good bit of drama:

We did get back to Bordentown without getting rained on.

Rickety wanted to do a photo shoot of Beaker for his year-long picture-a-day project. He wheeled her up to a sign and I took the bar bag and water bottles away.

Later, he said that the fire hydrant's presence bothered him. I bet he can Photoshop it out.

There was still enough time when I got home to take Rowlf, my commuter bike, up to Michael. The rear wheel was making a low, grinding noise that continued for a few seconds after the wheel was stopped. Thinking it might be in the hub, I wanted Michael to look at it. He built the wheels.

He put it up on the stand and listened. "It's in the tube," he said. Sometimes a piece of the valve can come loose. That would explain the after-spin rumble. Whatever was in there was settling to the bottom.

He took the tube out; it would need to be replaced no matter what was in it. He inflated it and shook it. He pinched his fingers onto something inside, something small and hard. 

"Let's cut it open!" I said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah!" I handed him one of the pairs of scissors on his work bench. He inverted the tube and dumped the contents onto the ground.

The workshop floor is ancient carpet, almost no pile left to speak of. Onto this the tube had spilled a stream of pale dirt.

Michael, who has been at this job longer than some of you have been alive, was at a loss. "Maybe you have a mud wasp in your pump?"

"Nope. The pump lives inside. I change the tube in my house. It came straight out of the box." Anyway, these chunks never could have come through the pump head even if something had been living up there. Besides, I use this pump for all five of my bikes. 

"This is a first," he said. 

"I'm glad to be a first!"

Rowlf needed a chain and hadn't had a tune-up, nor a good cleaning, in several years, so I left the bike with him.

It had rained while we were inside. Now, the gray sky was moving out. We looked for a rainbow over the Sourland Mountain but we didn't find one.

Jim had listed a ride for Sunday. My legs were shot from Saturday's wind. I didn't think I'd be able to keep up with whatever fastboy crowd was planning to show up. As it happened, not many people did; two had registered by Saturday night, and by Sunday morning, one of them had canceled. Sunday was the Hell of Hunterdon ride. That's where all the fastboys went. 

I texted Jim that I'd roll out from home 9-ish (with an emphasis on the -ish) and meet his group on Route 27, either at Harrison or Snowden. If I didn't see them there, I'd continue to Carnegie Lake.

I didn't see anyone in any of those places, so I leaned Kermit against a rock (against which he slid, scraping the paint on the right chainstay -- that's what black nail polish is for) and got out my phone to take pictures. I didn't have my camera; I needed the pockets for muffins. 

There was a text from Jim. He was back at Harrison. I replied that I must've missed him and that he should just continue on at this point. 

I walked towards the lake to get a few photos of the sky.

Jim had texted back, asking if he should wait. I hurriedly got my stuff back together and got into hammering mode, the wind helping me go south.

Jim was by himself, on the other side of the road, at Snowden. He crossed over to meet me. 

The one guy who was still registered never showed up. 

Somewhere in the back end of Princeton, a guy caught up with us. Jim said, "Never mind us. We're slower than the speed of traffic."

"Are you Plain Jim?" the guy asked. That's the second time in as many group rides that a stranger has rolled up mid-route and asked him that question.

The guy was the fellow who had signed up. He'd arrived at the parking lot a little late and saw no cars. Jim rides in from home, so there wouldn't have been any. 

To get to Hopewell, we used the newly-repaired and reopened Bayberry Road. 

On Fairway Road at Moores Mill, we skirted a puddle half the width of the road. "I'm calling it Lake McBride," he said. (IYKYK)

There was one sweet potato muffin left in the tin at Boro Bean. I let Jim know how good this was. The woman in front of him smiled and said, "I hope your heart's not set on it."

"Dang. If I'd seen you at Harrison..."

The three of us cracked wise about some Cabbage Patch Kid-like Black Friday scuffle, and Jim noted his sore disappointment when she chose an apple oat muffin instead. 

Having two free pockets and only ten miles to go, I bought one of each. 

I parted company with Jim and the new guy and headed up the Carter Road hill by myself. In the woods I could hear what sounded like sleet. I did get pelted on and off for the rest of the ride home.

To the anonymous woman at Boro Bean last Sunday morning: I ate the sweet potato muffin on Tuesday night after glassblowing class. It was gooooooooood.