Tom's Turkey Ride and Autumn Miscellany

Overexposed and overprocessed sweet gum tree

19 November 2016

With nine people on his ride today, Tom brought out the Holy Kickstand and performed his blessing of the bikes. 

In Bordentown, a flock of turkey vultures perched on the roof of a retirement home.

Axe Factory Road, closed, as it always is, at least has fresh blacktop north of the bridge.  That's an improvement.

At 21 miles, we stopped at a park to use the outhouse. We had to ride onto a gravel driveway to get there. Tom and Jim declared that this counted as riding on a dirt road, therefore satisfying the two criteria for a Tom ride. I wasn't convinced that a driveway should count.

Our rest stop, 32 miles into the 55-mile ride, was at the Wawa in Pemberton. Outside was a group of kids collecting money for their new Won by One basketball team. We tossed dollar bills into their buckets, talked to the coach, and learned just how expensive it is to outfit an after-school activity. The kids weren't shy at all about talking to us and asking about our bikes. We weren't shy at all about answering them.

We made it all the way to the end of the ride without incident, injury, or a depletion of riders. 

Tom is attempting to eliminate single variables from the Synapse curse: He was in Gettysburg with his Synapse and Jack H (nothing happened); he was with only me and our Synapses in Bucks County (nothing happened); and now he was with me, Jack H, and no Synapses (nothing happened).  I'm still going with the multiplicative synergy of hills, two Synapses, and other people's bikes, for the curse to function properly.

When I got out of the car at home, one of my neighbors from across the street came over to talk to me, distraught about the election. We talked for half an hour. 

Later in the afternoon, as the sun was low in the sky, it lit up another neighbor's sweet gum tree.

That reminded me of the handful of autumn photos on my phone, which I will present here as a distraction to reality.


A storm rolling in from the north over my neighborhood in October:

Later that week, fall colors on campus:

In my back yard, the hostas have taken over. In late October, they began to die back for the winter:

In September, I planted two azaleas that bloom in the spring and fall:

On the campus path into the lab on a foggy morning:

Another neighbor's maple tree, lit up by the morning sun:

The little Japanese maple that I planted a few years ago turned a brilliant red this fall:

And, finally, the purple glass pumpkin I bought in Corning, which I like even more now that it's been in the house for a while:

Clearing Our Heads at Cranksgiving

 The Krakow Monster and Rowlf at the firehouse before the ride

12 November 2016

Joe and Dave have done the Cranksgiving charity ride since its inception three years ago. This year Jim and I tagged along. The ride benefits the Trenton Area Soup Kitchen. Participants receive a list of groceries to buy (not all lists are the same), stop at three stores to fill the list, and carry the items back to the start of the ride. The route is only 20 miles, so I rode from home, and Plain Jim tagged along. Jim took loads of pictures and posted them on his blog.

For me, the ride was cathartic. Jim and I spent the 9-mile trip from my house to the West Windsor fire house swapping bewilderments and opinions. We've both come to the conclusion that there really are two Americas, there ain't bupkus we can do about it, and nothing is going to change as long as the party in power gets there by gaming a deeply flawed system.

The political talk continued on the way from the fire house to our first stop at McCaffrey's, as Dave and I (who are not on the same political page) found much to agree upon without either of us getting tetchy.

My mood was further elevated in McCaffrey's, where shoppers and clerks were amused by the ten or so of us clomping through the aisles in our bike shoes and fluorescent gear, shopping lists in hand, looking slightly lost at all times.

I'd only brought a small backpack; the box of instant oatmeal packets took up half of the real estate within. I was glad for the Cranksgiving volunteers outside the store who offered to take the load from me and add it to the pile of bags they'd already collected from other riders.

That left room for the large pack of large socks we picked up at Princeton Pong (whatever that is), and for the pasta and granola bars at Trader Joe's (where nobody seemed to notice our goofy garb).

Today's ride helped clear my head. We got together, had some fun, and helped those who don't have the luxury to pedal around West Windsor on a clear, breezy, November morning.

 First Presbyterian Church of Dutch Neck

A treetop in the wind 

 

A warning sign for literate geese at Carnegie Center

We're Better Than This

9 November 2016

We're better than this.

Don't get sucked into Trump Derangement Syndrome. You're better than that.

Don't assume everyone who voted for him agrees with everything he said on the campaign trail. They're better than that.

Grieve, and then pick yourself up and work for the causes you've been working for since before any of this started. You're better for it.

To B or Not to B

Bunker Hill Road, near Kendall Park 

6 November 2016

I don't recover from rides as fast as my biking buddies do. When I head out to Cranbury on a Sunday morning after a hilly Saturday ride, I don't expect to be at my best. Once in a while I stray, but for the most part, I choose a leader who I know will keep an honest B pace.

Last night's extra hour of sleep left me feeling more rested than usual, so when I arrived in Cranbury to find myself amid a mob of solid B+ riders, I was only a little nervous. Winter Larry was leading, and there were two other solid B people in the mix besides.

"This ride's gonna split," I told Larry. He agreed. I could easily see Peter F taking the fastboys and leaving the rest of us in peace.

We were facing a steady 15 mph wind, with gusts in the mid-20s, out of the northwest. Larry decided to head towards the Sourland Mountain, into the wind. Sourlands? I grabbed my camera.

I dropped into the small ring, a rare event for me and Kermit out in the flatlands.

After we got through the open fields north of Plainsboro and crossed 522 on the edge of Dayton, the group got spread out. When we collected ourselves again at Route 1 and crossed the highway, I noticed that two of the B riders (one in an unmissable pink jacket with a pink and black bike to match, the other in orange) were missing. I called out to Larry.

"They turned back," he said.

So did Peter, who had a prior commitment.

It's bad enough to be intimidated by the crowd in the parking lot. It's worse to have to drop off and go home alone on a ride whose advertised pace is one you can do in your sleep. At least they'd have a tailwind.

When we crossed Route 27 in Kendall Park, I had to stop to take a picture. I waited for everyone to pass down the hill, out of the frame.

I was half hoping that, despite Larry's instructions for everyone to wait at the canal, the entire group would be gone and I could proceed on my own at my own speed. I was half hammering, too, so that I could catch up before they'd have to wait too long. I almost caught Larry, so I didn't pull in too much after he did.

We continued to spread and scrunch all the way through Harlingen to Dutchtown. When we reached Route 601, Larry called out "free zone" and let the hammerheads hammer. We rode next to each other, talking about how best to resolve the pace problem, until I waved him on ahead so that I could get a picture of Hidden Spring Lavender:

Again I caught up as he was pulling into where everyone else was waiting. We stayed together through Skillmman Park, cleaned up and paved, no longer the creepy, abandoned, dilapidated site of a state home for epileptic boys. 

Then we spread out again.  This time the group didn't wait at the light at Opossum and 518. There were four of us caught at the red as the rest took off towards 206, where we were planning to stop at a bagel place in a strip mall.

This gave me and Larry more time to wonder why the B+ boys weren't over in Etra, where erstwhile Hill Slug, Marc-o, has been leading B+ rides for a month. Larry was feeling despondent. Why should he lead any more B rides this winter?

"This is very August," I said. It's late in the year now, but this sort of problem usually rears its head in the middle of the summer.

The light turned green. The fastboys were out of sight.

"I'd Sprague 'em," I said. "I'd go on to Main Street in Kingston."

Larry looked torn. "I can't. I told someone where we'd be stopping."

"I'd Sprague all of 'em."  Winter Larry is too much of a gentleman for that.

After the break, our route was more with the wind than into it.  Again we spread out, and, if not for a series of well-timed traffic lights on Plainsboro Road, we'd never have regrouped, this time into two bunches, the fastboys ahead and the tired ones back with me and Larry. 

I know I'll eventually age out of the B category, but I'm not there yet. I can even pull a B+ once in a while, if it's flat, I've slept, am caffeinated, and my legs are fresh. But I don't come out to Cranbury on Sundays looking to hammer. I hope we can resolve this, maybe by having the B and B+ rides leave from the same place at the same time so that the riders can sort themselves out. I hope the two who left today come back.

Mid-Autumn Colors in Central New Jersey

South Branch Road, Hillsborough 

5 November 2016

I:  Round Valley Reservoir

The autumn color is hanging around a bit longer these days. Warmer weather and a lack of rain has stayed with us too, so off we went today to see Round Valley Reservoir under drought conditions.

The Hill Slugs ride was the only hilly B thing going today; I had nine people in tow, including Rajesh and Ricky, back to do penance, or to give me another chance. I made sure to remind people that, if they were off the front and couldn't see me in their mirrors, I could not be responsible for their fates. Ricky and Rajesh backed me up on that one.

When I head out of Hillsborough to go north, I'm partial to South Branch Road. Three miles out, at the top of a small rise, is a view of the hills to the west of the Raritan.

I didn't notice until later that this farm appears to be growing a church, or maybe swallowing one:

The trip around the reservoir is about 12 miles. To get to the top counterclockwise, from Whitehouse station, one climbs in two sections. The first is in the woods, where it's not easy to get a sense of how high up one is until near the top, where there's a break in the trees to the south and one can look towards Cokesbury. The second section is out in the open, a short, sharp, shock, where one can see the top from the bottom. Descending, though, is a wide, curvy blast that ends with two annoying hard rollers at the southeastern end.

I didn't go that way today. We went clockwise, up the wide, curvy road that teases us with glimpses of the reservoir: a berm here, a blocked entrance there, a speck of water through the trees near the top. I tried to remember when my first trip up this hill was. It was more than ten years ago; back then, before the trees got so tall, we could see the water a lot sooner. Now, we can only catch a glimpse when we're nearly at the boat launch.

We were halfway up the hill when Jim's new saddle decided that he should be a soprano. He was having none of  that, and pulled off to level the seat again.

We regrouped at the boat launch.

The reservoir is at 67.3% capacity (0.1% away from its all-time low record).

There is not supposed to be a beach at the boat launch.

There was a beach at the boat launch.

There's a launch left center in this picture, but the water level is so low that the edge of the metal ramp is out of the frame:

There's a stretch of mud in front of this launch too:

 

I wanted to make sure that nobody missed the turn onto Old Mountain Road halfway down the northern edge of the reservoir, so I pulled off and waved everyone through. We got spread out, with Tom, Pete, and Jack H in the front, and Ricky next in line. I did my best to get to the head of the pack. Ricky, seeing that he couldn't see me, stopped at the crest of a roller to wait for the rest of us. Jack, Pete, and Tom kept on going.

Old Mountain ends at Railroad Avenue. I collected the remains of the group. One mile later is a four-way intersection with a stop sign. We usually go straight, which takes us directly into Whithouse Station. That wasn't the plan today, and I hoped that the three in front had enough sense to wait for the rest of us at the stop sign. I could see just enough of them to see them clip out, then clip in again and go straight.

I was a little pissed off. Back in my early days as a leader, I'd give too much away about where I was headed, and I'd lose control of the ride. I stopped telling people where I was going beyond the next turn, and that worked. Lately, I've let up on that. Today, I told Tom we'd stop in Whitehouse Station. He knew where I was going. He didn't know how I planned to get there. I'll have to go back to my old ways, because there's no chance I'm ever going to get any faster.

We turned right, over the bridge and onto Mountain Avenue, where I haven't been for a bunch of years. I forgot how pretty it is.

The three who went ahead got a mild scolding when I got to Jerry's Brooklyn Grill.

I've never had trouble in there. We've always been treated well. Not so today, I'm told, although I personally had no problems.  There's nowhere else to go, really, if one wants to keep the miles down and not have to ride on Route 22.  And anyway, they've got big muffins now. Not Stanton General Store (may it rest in peace) big, but a few rear gears shy of it. Not as tasty either, but that didn't stop me from wolfing down the entire top and some of the middle too, before handing the remains off to Jim.

Next stop, Thor Solberg Airport in Readington, where we saw this bright beast at rest,

and this little number coming in for a landing:

Tom said, "That's what I flew into Barrow."

"Geez!  It's got, like, four seats," I said.

Across the runway, we could see the hill that holds the reservoir:

From there, we followed the South Branch of the Raritan for a while, then veered off towards Pleasant Run, crossed that, and turned east into Neshanic Station.

I hadn't been there in a while either, so I stopped on the bridge for pictures.

Jack H asked, "Are we in Three Bridges?"  We weren't; that's off to the west. But I could see why he asked that. We were in between two railroad bridges.

Beyond the downstream bridge is what looks like an old mill.

Andrew pointed out that we were turning onto Mill Road, so my guess about the building was probably right. That somehow got us onto the topic of historic road markers he's seen, and about Province Line Road, and Old York Road, and then I spent the rest of the five miles back trying to figure out where the northern end of Old York Road is in Somerset County.  (Raritan Township, as far as I can tell, now that I'm at home with Google Maps.)

II: Maidenhead Meadows, the Dyson Tract, and the Lawrence-Hopewell Trail

Once in a while, Jack is OK with me taking him for a short walk in the woods. Today, I wanted to explore Lawrence Township's newly-opened Maidenhead Meadows (go ahead and cringe -- it's the original name for the township  -- everyone does, which is why we're Lawrence Township now). It's an old nursery and a former dredge spoils site (the Dyson Tract), with Princeton Pike on one side and the D&R Canal on the other. There are no paths down to the canal; it's too wet. There aren't any marked trails through the rows of planted trees yet either. The only obvious path is the old dirt road that snakes down and around the uplands from the nursery to the edge of the former dumping ground.

We stayed on the wide paths. I took pictures.

This looks like a stand of planted trees. We didn't walk between them, although I've been told that it's possible, until it gets too wet:

The Dyson Tract portion of Maidenhead Meadows:

Where the Lawrence-Hopewell Trail cuts across the nursery:

Tonight we set our clocks back an hour, and I will finally accept that summer is over.

Hill Slugs Ad Hoc, Saturday, November 5

3 November 2016

The Slugs will be heading to Round Valley Reservoir on Saturday to catch the last of the autumn color and see what the place looks like during an official drought.

Meet at Woodfield Park, on Marshall Road, off of Amwell Road, in Hillsborough for a 9:00 a.m. start.

The route is 46 miles and only moderately hilly. Expect a B pace when we're not climbing.