Delaware Water Gap

Delaware River and Arrow Island from Mount Tammany Summit

22 June 2014

I hadn't been on a hike in two years when Our Jeff Lippincott invited me and a handful of others to a 12-mile hike in the Delaware Water Gap.  The plan was to climb Mount Tammany, cross part of the Kittatinny Ridge, visit Sunfish Pond, and hike back.

Jeff's hikes are always a highlight of the annual trip to North Creek.  Since I'm not going again this year, how could I say no to a long day on a mountain with Jeff and Marilyn?  I wasn't sure I'd be properly prepared, but Jeff, the consummate planner, sent me a list of what I'd need, half of which I don't own.

We left his house in Lawrenceville at 7:30 a.m. and headed towards Milford to pick up Amy, the fourth hiker, who lives at the northwestern edge of Hunterdon County.

Although we arrived at the Water Gap half an our earlier than we'd expected, the two parking lots at the trailhead were full.  We wound up in one of two spillover lots across I-80, at least half a mile away.

The trails we took were full of hikers of every age and description, including a mother carrying her toddler on her back. We encountered two huge groups, one of which must have contained 30 people, the other at least 15. We heard foreign languages. Jeff ran into someone he went to high school with.  Most of the time, though, it seemed as if we were the only ones on the mountain.

Here are Amy and Marilyn ascending the Red Dot Trail:

There's a view of the Delaware River through the trees:

Halfway up, more or less:

Our Jeff, in not quite a rock scramble:

Getting close to the summit:

Mountain laurels:

At the summit with Marilyn, Our Jeff, and Amy:

More summit:

Jeff then led us across the ridge on a fire trail.  This part was flat and sunny.  The ferns smelled like peaches.  A black snake crossed our path.

Our turnoff to Sunfish Pond was at the head of the Turquoise Trail, marked by a cairn:

Sunfish Pond:

We rested here and had lunch.

We doubled back up the Turquoise Trail to the fire road.  It was here that I noticed a twinge in my left knee whenever we descended. I found a stick that I could use for support, just in case.

The fire road merged with the Dunnfield Creek Trail, which began with a rocky ascent and then a rocky descent.  I found a thicker, longer stick, and just in time, because, with almost six miles left to go, I needed it for everything but ascending.

When we got to the creek, we stopped to rest.  Jeff needed water, so he pumped from the creek through a small filter he brought with him.

The trail crosses the creek at least four times.  I lost count.  Most of the time we rock-hopped.  For the last two crossings, though, I found it easier to wade than risk more twinges.  To the others, my wading must have seemed odd.  To me, it was business as usual.  I explained to Amy the penchant Tom and I have for fording streams.

Jeff slowed the pace.  I apologized as I descended rocks sideways to avoid further injury.  I suppose I was invoking Rule Number Five, but, really, as long as I could walk, there wasn't much of a choice, and I wasn't even close to being hurt badly.

I limped out of the forest, leaning on my limpin' stick.  Here's the Red Dot Trail head sign, with my stick, and a warning about rattlesnakes:

We crossed back under the highway.  On the way, we got a good view of the mountain. The trail summit is the tiny rock outcrop above the big one near the center of the picture.

I plopped down on the blacktop next to Jeff's car, took of my shoes, changed into dry socks, ate my remaining blueberries, and swallowed to naproxen tablets.  We changed clothes in the bathrooms.  I left my limpin' stick for the next hiker.

Across the river is Mount Minsi, not as tall as Tammany:

We stopped at the Log Cabin Inn, in Columbia, NJ, for dinner.  It looks like a combination biker bar, pizza joint, and hick hangout.  It's the only thing for miles around.  They have not one, but two kinds of veggie burgers.

On the drive home, as on the way up, we passed Foul Rift Road, and could see the cooling towers from the power plant across the river.  I'd assumed, wrongly, that it was a nuclear plant.  It's not;  it's the oil- and gas-burning Martins Creek plant. It used to burn coal.

Because it was close by, I suggested we take a short detour up Fiddler's Elbow.  I narrated. Jeff's SUV groaned at the same spot that my bike gave up.  I tried to navigate us back to where we were, but my phone's signal was choppy and I misdirected.  Jeff's GPS got us back on course, and in a flash of memory I recognized the road we were on from a blog picture that's part of my desktop slideshow at work.

We ended up riding on Route 57 for a while.  It was worth it; we could see the Highlands ridges on either side of us as the sun went down.  We made one more stop, for ice cream, at Jimmy's, three miles down the road from where Amy lives. The line was long, and the ice cream not worth the wait, I thought, so Marilyn and I reserved a picnic bench by a creek and talked about strength training.  Amy explained that this was the main hangout in town.  By now, my leg had stiffened up.  I tested what I could do with it.  I could squat.  I could step onto the bench.  I could bend.  There was no swelling.  But it hurt like the dickens to step off a curb.

It was another hour before we got back to Jeff's house, and a short drive home from there.  When I stepped out of the car, I was walking normally.  The stairs at home were no problem.  Nonetheless, I loaded up with NSAIDS and planned to stay off the bike on Sunday.  I slept for 9 hours instead.  Today, other than being pretty much sore from the waist down, I feel fine.  No twinges.

Maybe I'll do a century next weekend.

No Slug Buffer

 Rocktown Road uphill from Lambertville

14 June 2014

Jim already has his post up about today's ride.  I'm glad he got the details out there, because it frees me up to rant, more or less.

Cheryl and I were hoping that more Slugs would come out today, but they didn't. That left me and Cheryl to fend for ourselves among a cadre of fastboys, some whom we didn't even recognize and others I know I don't want to ride with.  Jim and John K were, as always, gracious about slowing down, and even waiting, so that we could catch up.  Despite that, the two of us didn't have a big enough Slug Buffer to ever truly feel comfortable.  Having copied the cue sheet, I was fine with being abandoned.  Cheryl and I could make our own way at our own pace and be no worse for the wear.  I even suggested that we could head home at any time if we felt like it, and I could drive her back to her car. But John and Jim kept waiting for us.

Things got worse when, about 20 miles in, when the terrain got hilly, Cheryl's rear hub began to slip randomly, leaving her to pedal without traction until the hub caught again.

John's one-stop metric put us in Sergeantsville.  To our relief, almost nothing has changed but the faces behind the counter and an apparent upgrade in the coffee (I stayed away this time, having had quite enough in the morning).  The store looks the same, the cook is the same, and the place still even smells the same.  I wasn't expecting any of that, and, until today, I never really noticed how the store smells. It's not a bad smell.  It's a musty sort of smell.  But now it's a welcoming, familiar smell, one that will let us breathe a sigh of relief:  long live the Sergeantsville Deli.

When Cheryl and Blake decided to cut out for home, I was left in the back of the pack, the anchor.  I'm used to being in the back with the Slugs.  Slugs don't care who's in front and who's in back.  Slugs don't say shit like this:

"I'm in energy conservation mode.  I'm going to ride here in the back with you."

Those who know me will be surprised that I didn't drop the F bomb and be done with it. Instead I sternly informed the ignoramus that I know my distance, that I know my pace, that I know my speed, and that his comment was insulting.

Slugs don't say shit like this (same perp):

"You dropped your sandwich so you could climb the hills faster."

My sandwich became bird food because I hit a bump while I was trying to eat it on the fly so as not to slow anyone down.  I said, "You just don't get it, do you?  I don't care how fast I climb."

Which isn't strictly true.  I do care: If I were faster then my friends wouldn't have to keep waiting for me.  But most of the time, when we're out on a Slug adventure, I don't even look at my speed until the ride is over (see last week's post).

A few seconds lapsed, and I said, "Being faster does not make one a better person.  What it does do is increase one's potential to be an asshole." He laughed.

Slugs stop to take pictures. Today I stopped only once for that, a scene only Cheryl also noticed (there were turkeys under the tree, too dark for my phone to handle).

I didn't even stop at Mount Airy.  As a testament to how much slower Cheryl and I were, Jim had time to snap a picture of me not stopping to snap pictures.  Had there been cows, maybe I would have stopped.

Jim's picture of me not taking pictures of cows

Sheesh.  This post reads as if the lady doth protest too much.  Perhaps she does. Had I not been insulted twice by someone I've been explaining myself to on and off for over a decade, perhaps I wouldn't be feeling so grumpy.

It's not John's fault.  I'm glad he considers me a friend worth inviting to a ride.  I appreciate that he had a stack of pizzas and cold drinks waiting for us when we got back. I appreciate how gracious he and Jim were being as Cheryl and I lagged behind.  I'm glad I did the extra miles to his house and that I got almost 80 in for the day. I'm glad that Cheryl was there (and sad that we won't be able to buffer each other when she moves away). I'm glad that someone else took over the responsibility for leading today.  I'm glad that there's still squash cherry nut bread at the Sergeantsville Deli. And I'm glad that Jim and I had a tailwind to push us home.

Here's the route.

Reputations: when a B is not a B, and whether or not that matters

This is Not a B Pace.

8 June 2014

I lead B rides.  Peter F and Gary W lead B rides.  We all have the same reputation: none of us comes in at a B pace.

My reputation is complicated.  I'm at once too fast and too slow.  I take all damn day.  I stop for pictures.  I stop for expensive snacks. My rides are too long. I add extra miles by inviting people to start from my house. I add extra miles by riding to other people's rides.  I'm slow on the hills.  I'm good in the wind.  

Over the years my rides have become more difficult as I've become a better climber and become infected by the distance bug. At the end of a ride, we're lucky to see an average in the 14 mph range. I lead a slow B.  It's a B only because we kick it out in the flats, when there are any, and because I'm leading metrics by April.

Peter and Gary have the opposite problem.  Their rides are short (40 miles, the bare minimum I'd consider for a ride in January), flat, and fast.  Their rides, like mine,  are listed as B rides.  Where I use "slow B" in my description, they use "strong B," but we're all B leaders.  Gary earned his reputation last year, when rumors of averages higher than 18 mph began percolating through the parking lots.

Last night I got plenty of sleep, so I decided to attempt a Gary ride.  Peter was filling in.  There were 15 of us, most of whom I didn't recognize.  There was one other Hill Slug -- Marc -- and two sometimes Slugs -- John and Jane.  I put myself in the middle of the pack and expected to be finding my own way home after 10 miles.  I needn't have worried.  I finished in the middle with what is probably a modest average for this group.

Peter and I spent a lot of time during the ride talking about what a B means and how to list a ride.  He said that people know what to expect on Gary's rides, which is true if by "people" he means regulars.  But riders like me, who show up once in a while and have been fed only rumors, don't know what to expect.

He and Gary don't want to list their rides as B+, even though they are, because when they do, the A riders come along, push the pace, and steal the ride.  I told him that he is more than welcome to use the phrase that I use when I list my rides in the Free Wheel:

Pace pushers not welcome.

I was amazed that all 15 of us finished the ride together.  "This group always finishes together," several people said.  Peter added, "They're afraid of me."  I said, "My riders are afraid of me, too, but for different reasons."

Reputations.  If you can't beat 'em, ride 'em.

 Pace-pushers beware the wrath of the Floating Cat Head.

Tom's Round Valley Ride

Northern Approach to Round Valley Reservoir 

7 June 2014

Tom led us back to my favorite puddle today.  I think I haven't fully recovered from last week's folly, because I didn't have the energy I ought to have had.  Or I didn't get enough sleep last night.  Or both.

I drove to the ride start, and before I even opened the door I found out that people had been taking bets on whether I'd drive or ride to Griggstown from home.  "You have a reputation," Cheryl informed me.

Great.

None Little of it is true.

Anyway, today was the perfect day to visit the reservoir.  Jim, Avtar, and I inadvertently trespassed at the top of the northern approach, when we pulled into the end of a road that is usually fenced off.  We were politely shooed away by a park ranger who wanted to close the fence, but not before we took a few pictures.

I try and try and try, and fail and fail and fail, to capture the size of the berm at the reservoir's southern end.

At the boat launch I took a quick video:

On Stanton Mountain Road I could see the Dr. Seuss trees on Sidney Road:

Peacock's is being slowly torn down.

We sat in the shade and ate snacks, because that's what one does when one gets to Peacock's before climbing Lindbergh.

The rusty metal of the collapsed roof looks like fire through the broken window:

To add to my fatigue and sore butt (a pair of shorts died on last week's ride, leaving a welt behind on my behind as a parting gift), Miss Piggy decided that two weeks away from Hart's is long enough.  The new front shifter cable, pre-stretched before installation, stretched some more, beyond what I could fix on the fly with the barrel adjuster.  For a while I couldn't get into the big ring, but I fiddled around while pedaling and fixed that. In the middle ring, though, the derailleur was grinding on the chain two thirds of the way down the rear cogs. With the setup I have, I expect grinding at the edges, but not in the middle.  After the ride, Jim was kind enough to take a look.  Marc had a small stand, so we propped the rear wheel up and played with the barrel adjuster.  Jim figured out that we'd have to pull the cable tighter, something that shouldn't be done in a parking lot after a hilly 58.

I think Piggy is dialed in for about two weeks each year.  This is not one of them. I'm starting to use up my sense of humor; now I'm just getting annoyed.  On the other hand, my back never hurts when Miss Piggy takes me up the hills, no matter how much two-handed shifting I have to do.

*****

I have some miscellaneous cell phone photos to share.

This is what Burnaby looks like when I'm lying on the bedroom floor to stretch after a long ride:

A heavy storm blew from the west through campus on Tuesday afternoon.  This is what my office window looked like half an hour after the rain had stopped:

There were more showers overnight, but things had dried up enough in the morning for me to sit on my sittin' rock in the back yard, drink my coffee, and take pictures of wet hostas.

#38

Springfield Meeting House Road, 109 Miles

1 June 2014

Neil's Ride, "Whichever Way the Wind Blows," was listed as a B+ 100-miler starting from Cranbury at 8:00 a.m. The distance and starting time I could handle; it was the pace I was worried about.  I emailed Neil to find out just how fast his B+ pace was going to be.

When he wrote back to tell me, he added that the distance was going to be 120 miles, starting from somewhere in Allentown, the exact location to be relayed later.  I wavered for about ten minutes.  If I can do 116 miles (to and from the Princeton Event century) in the heat of August, I damned well better be able to do 120 when it's only 70 degrees out.

On Friday Neil emailed again with the starting location.  And then again, because he'd forgotten to tell me that we'd be leaving at 7:00 a.m.

Glurk.

120 miles, no problem.  Allentown, no problem.  Getting up at 5:15 a.m. was going to be the biggest challenge of the day.  The trick is to get everything -- bike, water, clothes, coffee, sandwiches -- ready the night before.  (This gave me an excuse to try cold-pressing coffee for the first time. It came out well -- very smooth.)

There were two others, aside from me, Neil, and Mark, on the ride.  One, a seasoned randonneur named Jonathan, looked tough enough to get up Fiddler's Elbow without standing.  The other, Steve, hadn't done more than 60 miles at once all season.  "You're gonna hurt," Neil warned. Both are training for the Longest Day, a ride that I'd love to do if it didn't involve spending half the season doing century-plus training for.

If you're ever unsure about riding a century or more, ride with Neil and Mark. As goofy as they seem at first, when it comes to pacing, planning, and technique, they are spot on and dead serious.

I don't stop for pictures on rides like this.  I didn't even bring my real camera. Had I done, I'd have photographed the osprey nest on the marsh along the Bass River.  I might have been fast enough to get the osprey in flight, too.  I'd have been able to show you the brown reeds in the foreground, the pines in the background, and the perfect clouds in the perfectly blue sky.  I'd have taken pictures of the Pinelands ponds we passed and the rivers we crossed, of the burned Pinelands forest we could still smell, of the Pygmy Pines (a.k.a. the Pine Barren Plains) on Route 539 in Warren Grove.

Instead, I have this critter, clinging to the outside wall of the second Wawa we stopped at, north of Tuckerton, at 47 miles, next to Frog Pond Road:

The first 47 miles were easy.  A tailwind pushed us down Route 539, giving us an average higher than anything I've seen for that distance.  Neil, who doesn't have a computer on his bike, was surprised at the speed.  "It's gonna drop," he said.  We'd be into the wind from now on.

The wind shifted with us, so that it battered us when we headed west through the Pinelands and northeast, still in the Pinelands, towards Chatsworth.  Neil was at the front most of the time, because he was the only one who knew where we were.  I was right behind him for most of the ride.  Sometimes Jonathan or Mark would be second and I would be third. Steve, wisely conserving his energy, stayed in the back.  Once I dropped back at a trailhead, the only safe place to pee in the Pinelands; and even then, I spent as much time checking my legs for ticks as I did with my shorts down.

Neil had warned me that the last 20 miles are the roughest ones.  I already have rough miles: on a century, the second leg, the one between 50 and 75 miles, is the most difficult part.  I've learned how to stave off the 70-mile wall by eating something, hungry or not, at 65 miles.  I did that, and about ten miles later we stopped at a canoe rental shop (Mick's Canoes, south of Chatsworth) that had meager food, but clean bathrooms and picnic tables.

We stopped again at 94 miles, in Pumpernickel Tabernacle, at Nixon's.  There we sat at a picnic table under a tent, the guys eating massive lunches, me finishing the third half-sandwich (PB&J on Jack's homemade bread, of course) and a banana, plus the coffee I'd poured into my second water bottle.

We took our time.  I recited "Garden State Stomp" and "Jerseywocky." 

After that, Jonathan and I stretched on the grass. Steve lay on his back on one of the picnic benches. I think every century has a rest stop where people lie down.

Mark told us that we had "twenty-something-odd miles to go," and that soon I'd recognize where we were.  Soon I did, at the southwest end of Pemberton, with 20 miles to go. I needed to find a tree again, and got lucky at an outdoor plant shop with a porta-pot. 

Another porta-pot materialized at 109 miles.  I got a few photos while waiting for the guys.

 The clouds I contemplated at mile 109

Around then, maybe a few miles before, one of two things, or maybe both, happened.  It's when Steve and I had a burst of energy, and when Neil stopped pulling. For me, anything over 100 miles was gravy; anything over 116 would be a new record.  We were at 118 on Old York Road.  I took off, as much as one can take off into the wind at 118 miles.  Steve was not far behind me.

We finished with 121 miles.  Our average (having dropped like a rock as soon as the tailwind vanished) at 100 miles was the ol' century average from back in the days of Big Joe.  Our average at 121 was half a mile per hour under that.  Not that anyone's keeping track.

I did pull out my phone camera at the end.  Steve looked over and laughed.  "I'm documenting the atrocity," I said.

"Only 86 more miles and you'll have the Longest Day," Mark said.  Forget it. I think I might have Longest Day lust out of my system.

(For now?)

Here's the route, courtesy of Neil.

No. Just, No.

(And why is this on display at Staples?)