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The Picture Everyone Takes in Clinton, NJ

17 July 2022

Ten of us started out from Lambertville, and as soon as we turned onto Seabrook, eight of them took off up the hill. If it was going to be one of those rides, so be it.  "I'm taking my time," I told Bolong, who was, for this brief moment, hanging back with me. "We have a long day ahead."

Tom was waiting for us at mile six, at the Sergeantsville General Store. We rolled, mostly uphill, for another eight miles. I was still in the back of the climbing pack, but we were closer together now. When we reached the ridge, I pulled the group along Route 579 into Quakertown, which is about three blocks long.

We took some side roads downhill  across and then towards Pittstown Road. 

Bolong asked, "Are we done with the hills?"

A handful of us mumbled, "No."

"For now," I said.

We turned onto Pittstown Road. Heddy and stopped to take pictures. Ahead of us was the valley that holds Spruce Run Reservoir, and behind that were the hills of the Highlands.

Heddy was taking a picture of the field next to us, so I did too.

We turned west on a quiet road and aimed for the frontage road on the south side of Route 78. We crossed over the highway and continued east into Clinton.

It's always gnarly when I go this way. From Union Street, we had a short, steep drop onto Main Street, where we had to negotiate a left turn into a left turn lane, wait for a light, turn left again, and then negotiate another left into Clinton, where we crossed the Raritan River for what would be the first of four times in the next four miles.

I hadn't been in Clinton since the Before Times. I did what everyone else does: I took a picture of the mill, even though I have loads already.

For the first time that I could remember, the wheel was turning:

Citispot survived the pandemic (which is not over, people!). Nobody is masking inside anymore except me. It was an iced coffee kind of day.

Ken and Heddy fed one mallard that patrolled the plaza, while five others snoozed at the base of the steps by the river.

While I was down by the ducks, I took some more pictures.

A sculpture called New Direction was a new addition since the last time I was here.

Our way out of Clinton was south, along the Raritan, through the road that's closed to cars and is sometimes gravel, crossing the Raritan three more times on little metal bridges.

Then it was time to climb. I hadn't remembered to warn anyone in advance about the combination of Spring Hill and West Sidney Roads. These guys could take it, I figured. I called out, "Long climb!"

At the top of Spring Hill, I did get a chance to explain the Fucking Hill at the other end of West Sidney. 

"Well, that sucked," Heddy said as I rolled in. There were still a few people on their way up, so I waited until everyone "put their lungs back in," as Jim is fond of saying, before I told them that we were standing at the highest elevation of the day. 

We weren't totally finished climbing, but we were near enough to it for me to relax and pull the group back through Quakertown, over to Locust Grove, and so on, back to Locktown. Upper Creek Road has a couple of ascents in this direction, but for the most part we were coasting downhill.

We collected ourselves again at the Green Sergeants Covered Bridge. Tom continued up the hill towards Sergeantsville. The rest of us rode past the barricade on Lower Creek that says, more or less, "go away if you don't actually live here."

The road is no longer the paradise it was before Ida obliterated chunks of it, but it's still plenty pretty, and if you keep one eye on the potholes and gravel, you can still enjoy the trip back towards Stockton.

We hammered down Route 29 for the last three miles, because none of us really wanted to be on Route 29 for very long. 

In the parking lot, Rickety remarked that if one were to combine the ages of the two 22-year-olds who had joined us today, the result would still be younger than any of the rest of us (except Bolong). The youngsters could easily have gone faster, but they stayed with us, and we all waited for each other. That people are willingly patient is the second-best part of Hill Slug rides.

The best part is the scenery, for which I cannot take credit.

*****

Jim led a ride from Franklin Township to Boro Bean in Hopewell today. Nearly everyone who signed up was a B+ rider. I saw the list and told Jim I'd meet the group en route, at the corner of Route 27 and Snowden, which would get me out of having to climb the few hills he'd put in between the start and there. I'd climbed up the battlefield hill to get there, so I'd done a little work. It was 9:00 a.m. I'd been on the road for half an hour and I was already soaked with sweat.

When the group arrived, Jim said, "These guys are too fast for me," and then proceeded to beat them up every little hill between Princeton and Hopewell. Me, I wasn't beating anyone up anything. Jack H, who had been on my ride yesterday, was questioning his decision to show up today. 

Nobody really jumped ahead, though, and we rolled into Hopewell only a little strung out. At Boro Bean, I bought two muffins for later and didn't eat anything. I only had ten miles left to get home. Jim hustled the group out pretty quickly; I wouldn't have had time to finish eating anyway. 

They headed east; I headed uphill. The south wind was in my face on the way home. Sweat from my helmet was dripping onto my glasses. Sweat from the rest of me was dripping onto Miss Piggy's top tube. I got home around 11:30, wiped down Piggy and her chain, and vowed not to go outside for the rest of the day.

I know Central Jersey is where my life is, but it's on days like this that my desire to move to New England is strong.