Belmar Beach
14 August 2022
Tom listed a 60-mile ride into the Pinelands from Mansfield for July 30. A few days before the ride, I'd asked the Slugs if any were interested in adding miles. The weather was threatening to be uncomfortably hot for that. I had no takers.
We started early and had a tailwind. Our first stop was at the Brendan Byrne State Forest ranger's station. Tom runs this ride every year, and I've learned to check the shed by the side of the parking lot for spiders.
This time it was easy. A little jumper was already there, not under the eaves but out in the open, on the door.
iNaturalist later identified it for me as a white-faced jumping spider.
We stoped again at Nixon's in Tabernacle. I sat on the sidewalk outside of the store. I've learned the hard way that, especially mid-season, I need to sit down during rest stops to keep my back from hurting.
Eric H asked me if I wanted to put in some extra miles at the end in order to make the ride a metric century. That seemed easy enough, to go from 60 to 63 miles.
As we got closer to Mansfield, though, the group became spread out. Mike, Heddy, and Luis were in front of me. I was more or less by myself. I got caught at the light in Columbus, and by the time I got going again, I saw Mike and company ride past the entrance to the park. This is easy to do; it looks like someone's driveway.
I sped up to try to catch them as they went past the other entrance. While I was gaining on them, I was figuring out that they, too, were doing extra miles. They turned right on Island Road, with me in hot persuit. I caught them at the entrance to the Kinkora Trail.
"Yes! I'd love to do some extra miles!" I called out. "Thanks for asking!" Then I explained why I had chased them in the first place. There was no apology, only this from Mike: "Rule number 2a!" He meant Jim's rule: If you chase someone who is off the front, you, too, are off the front and on your own. Fair enough, but they really ought to have floated the idea to everyone. Eric and I should have, too.
When we arrived back at the park, a lot of people had already left. I explained what had happened. "Do you want to do those extra miles?" I asked Eric. He said he was good with what he had. Tom said, "I made it 60 miles on purpose to see what the OCD people would do." Now he knows: we'd behave like jerks.
The past month of biking had pretty much made me miserable, both physically and mentally. I hadn't taken a break from biking since four days in late April, when I was in Covid jail, and it had been eight months before that since my last pause. The leg work in my lifting routines wasn't helping either. It had gotten to the point that my quads were so tight I couldn't put full weight on my knees without wincing, either on a stairway or standing on my bike over a rough patch of road. Group riding was feeling like an obligation, during which I was being judged for my performance and road choices.
I needed to take a week away from the bike. And I did. I picked a good week not to ride to work. We were in another heat wave, which was supposed to break on Friday night and rain on us into Saturday.
I'd only been off for six days when I figured we'd be rained out on Saturday anyway and listed a ride. It didn't rain. Nine people registered, and one more showed up at the parking lot. It was a stupid route, mucking about in the Sourlands without ever getting too far from home, should the clouds have a change of heart. My legs felt pretty good. I registered for Jim's Sunday ride when I saw that the regular pace-pushers hadn't.
What I was waiting for was a warm, clear, day with little wind, to list my Belmar century. It might take until September to get it, I figured.
That day ended up being yesterday. I posted the ride early and it was full by Thursday evening. I opened up two more slots and they filled immediately. Twelve is all I can handle. I can't count more than that and pedal at the same time. Fortunately, I knew all but one of the folks who had registered, which means I knew they could handle it.
This ride requires logistics. 100-milers start from my house. We pick up the 85-milers at Mercer County Park. Then we move on to Etra Lake Park to fetch the 68-milers. This time, I'd also be grabbing one at our first rest stop in Jackson.
We had a solid century crew: Martin, Rajesh (who'd changed his mind from 85 to 100), Ken W, Heddy, Ming, Carmen, and I picked up Jack H (who'd ridden in from Yardley) at Mercer County Park. Our 63-milers were Jim, Pete, and Bob. Tom, who now lives a few miles away from the Minit Stop in Jackson, met us there for a 50-mile ride.
It was a clear day, in the low 70s. The wind was out of the north, enough to notice but not enough to get in the way. We felt it on Cedarville as we approached Etra, but for the rest of the ride to the beach, we pretty much ignored it.
Belmar wasn't as crowded as I thought it would be, given the weather. Traffic wasn't bad either.
Carmen, who is visiting from Germany and will be leaving soon, wanted a group photo with the sand in the background. Those of us who do not want our pictures on the internet stayed across the street.
I took my requisite hanful of beach photos. What are those umbrella-tenty-things? I'm not up on the latest in beach coture.
For me, the most difficult part of a century is the section between 50 and 75 miles. On this route, we're going slightly uphill, and into the wind a bit, between Belmar and Freehold. There are a few long stretches that sometimes feel demoralizing. I'd warned the group that I'd have a grumpy ten miles somewhere in there. It usually happens around mile 70.
We were a few miles away from our 73-mile rest stop when one of our riders bonked. He has more career 100+ mile rides under his belt than the rest of us combined, and it took us all by surprise. But hey, this happens. We stopped and people shoved whatever food they had on them in his direction. I took the opportunity to eat something, in an effort to stave off the grumpies, and to stretch my back by arching it, looking up into the tree over hour heads.
"There's a spider web up there," I told Heddy.
No, really. When I looked at the photo at home, I knew it was a labrynth orb weaver web, with two egg sacs above where the spider is hiding.
My yard was loaded with these last summer. Here's an egg sac from one of last year's residents:
And here's a closeup of a Metepeira. Isn't she pretty?
Right. Back to the century. Our bonking rider got hit with cramps and limped into the Freehold rest stop, a Dunkin Donuts in a sprawling shopping center. He loaded himself up with sugar.
"There's a point in every century," I said, "Where your body goes from this is fine to what the fuck. I never know when exactly that is, but I always know after it's happened."
Meanwhile, some of us were losing our minds. I don't know what started it, but Martin and Heddy were deeply engrossed in a conversation about whether it's "water under the bridge," "water over the bridge," or "water over the dam." This is an easy answer when one isn't nearing the end of a 100-mile ride.
Then, Heddy started asking everyone who came out of the store, "Taylor Ham or pork roll?" We got some lively answers out of that.
We only had 13 more miles to Etra, and our cramping rider made it there. He was contemplating finishing the century, but we talked him out of it. I've been there. Even after a rest and food, cramps have a way of coming back, and being stuck on the road when that happens is Not Fun. Jim volunteered to drive him back to my house. I texted Jack so that he'd know where the pickles were. We were digging into our snacks. I downed some caffeineated shot blocks, not because I needed the jolt, but because I wanted something sweet.
The last 15 miles felt slower, and it didn't help that we had to ride into the wind for some of it. I could feel my breathing rate increasing, which is a sign that my body had crossed over into what the fuck territory. When I get this close to the end, I just pedal and ignore everything else.
At least we had a tailwind up the last hill to my house. Jim and the other rider had come and gone by the time we got there. After everyone left, I was still in the street, talking to my neighbors, who are about to leave for a week in Acadia, and, well, we had to talk about my happy place, which is theirs too.
I finally got inside, ate some things, and had a bout of vertigo in the shower when I leaned down to clear my hair out of the drain. My breathing was still fast. There have been few centuries where this has not happened.
Thanks to Covid, we have a pulse oximeter in the house. I was curious, so I stuck my finger in. Sitting on the bed, doing absolutely nothing but scrolling through my phone, my resting heart rate was in the 90s!
We had dinner reservations in Philly, so I didn't have time to write a blog post. Instead, I put this up on the PFW Facebook:
By 73 miles, we’d pretty much lost our minds. Heddy and Martin were asking everyone who came out of the Freehold Dunkin Donuts, “Taylor ham or pork roll?”
The ensuing banter entertained me all throught dinner (rude as it is to check my phone), and even spilled into the actual dinner conversation. In the end, it looks like the winner is pork roll.
We didn't get back home until nearly midnight. I had to go check on the spiders, of course. It was 1:00 a.m. when I settled into bed. My heart rate was back down to where it usually is when I'm doing nothing. I turned off the alarm.
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