Why I Didn't Spend A Day At The Races

Sometimes I start a ride with no particular destination or itinerary in mind.  Believe it or not, every multiday tour I have ever taken was such a ride.  I would buy a plane ticket to Paris or San Francisco or Rome or some other place and bring my bike, bike luggage and whatever I planned on carrying in the bike luggage with me.  Then, upon arriving at Charles de Gaulle or Fiumicino or SFO, I would decide to ride in one direction or another and decide on destinations—or, more precisely, a series of destinations—some time after checking into a hostel and looking at a Lonely Planet guide or a Michelin map.

It’s easier to do such things when you’re young—and male.  Although I never stopped riding altogether, save for a few months after my surgery, I don’t have nearly as much strength or endurance as I did when I was still living as a man.  Also, because of the circumstances of my life, I don’t have as much disposable income as I did as a male in my thirties. (It must also be said that I was in my thirties during the ‘90’s, when the dollar went so much further abroad as well as in its own country!)  But I sometimes go on day rides when without a set route, or even destination in mind.  It gives me, however briefly, the same sense of freedom I used to feel when embarking upon those multiday tours.

More often, though, I find that I start a ride with a destination or route in mind and find myself changing my mind when on the road.  Call me fickle if you will, but sometimes external factors—or a simple turn—can cause me to change my ride.  The latter is what happened to me today. 

I intended to ride to Somerville so I could see the races.  And I had a vision of riding home as the late-afternoon early summer sun descended the Watchung hills on my way back to the city.  That last vision came to pass, but for reasons I hadn’t planned.

For one thing, I started riding a few hours later than I intended.  I still could have made it to Somerville in time to see some of the later criteriums.  And, although I was pedaling into a wind blowing out of the west, from the hills I was ascending, I was still making fairly good time.  I was riding up more hills than I did on previous rides to Somerville because I took—part of me says unintentionally, but another part of me would claim or credit my subconscious—a slightly different, and unfamiliar, route.  In spite of my relative unfamiliarity with the route, I knew I was going in the right general direction.

Neighborhoods that haven’t quite recovered from riots nearly half a century ago gave way to suburbs and, finally, rather charming little towns with real old-time shopping strips and, in one town, an “opera house”.

Late in the 19^th, and early in the 20^th, centuries, nearly any town of any significance had an “opera house”.  Now, those places weren’t staging productions of Tosca or The Marriage of Figaro.  Rather, they showed musical plays or vaudeville acts.  When “moving pictures” came out, they were often shown in such halls.

Some of those “opera houses” were merely workmanlike or had a kind of sentimental charm.  But others were, if not masterpieces, at least interesting works of architecture.  Sadly, some were lost during “urban renewal” or other “development” schemes.  But others, like the one I’m showing in this post, were converted to everything from art galleries to concert spaces to restaurants.

My ride included that opera house as well as hills and meandering river valley.  Somehow I lost my incentive to see the races; it became very, very satisfying for me to ride through moments, light and the warmth of the sun on my skin. I didn’t see any place exotic.  Perhaps that will come again another day.  But for today, I was happy.  I didn’t take the ride I’d planned, but perhaps I took the one I needed.

A Day At The Races, In The Town

Yesterday I rode out to Somerville, in part to see the races (some of them, anyway) and in part for the ride itself.  Also, it’s good—for me, anyway—to re-enact an old ritual every now and again.

Last year, I took a route I had followed several times before, through Newark and Jersey City and Westfield.  From there, I followed, more or less, the paths of the Rahway and Raritan rivers to Bound Brook, the next town over from Somerville.

This year, I decided to try a route I found on one of the map websites.  It looked promising:  It avoided a section of US Highway 22 on which I found myself very briefly but I wanted to avoid because the high point of it was finding a deer carcass sprawled across my path.

Well, I found myself veering off the route on several occasions:  There were series of turns that would have challenged even the best ballerinas.  You can guess what happened next:  I found myself on that very same stretch of 22.  Admittedly, I didn’t have to spend more than half a kilometer on it, but it was unpleasant enough, especially in light of what happened:  A section of my front inner tube bubbled through a cut in my tire and flatted---at the very spot where I saw the deer carcass last year.

A minor annoyance, I admit.  But I decided that this ride was going to be “perfect”—which is not a good mindset from which to set out on two wheels (or for doing very many other things, I’ve found).  I fixed the tube (I had a spare, but I figured the tube was easily fixable) and booted the tire.  During those few minutes, it seemed that the temperature rose by about ten degrees:  What had been a pleasantly warm day was turning into a borderline “scorcher”.  Beautiful as the day was, conditions were draining:  The weather had turned hot, with direct sunlight.  And I was pedaling directly into a 20-30 KPH wind.  I guess if I ever decide to ride across a desert, such conditions would train me well.

On top of everything, I’d forgotten my water bottle.  As I was getting dressed, I popped it into the freezer.  I sometimes leave it in for a few minutes before a ride on a warm day:  The water doesn’t freeze, but remains pleasantly cool for a couple of hours into a ride—by which time I’d need a refill.

What that meant were a couple of stops at local grocery stores for Poland Spring water and Gatorade, which I don’t normally drink.  I made an exception for the latter because I saw that I wasn’t sweating but my T-shirt was turning into a tie-dye collage or batik (choose your metaphor) of salt stains.  

Still, I enjoyed the ride, which I estimated to be about eight or ten kilometers longer than I’d planned.  I didn’t stay for all of the races:  I left just before five because I wanted to avoid riding in the dark through the desolate industrial areas of North Elizabeth and South Newark.  I made it to Penn Station in Newark just as the orange and red and purple of the sunsets (which are so colorful in those polluted areas) were turning into the metallic hues that reflected the new office and condo towers near the station.

Arielle, as always, made it a great ride.  And I am more and more convinced that the Ruth Works Brevet bag hanging from my handlebar is the best piece of bicycle luggage I’ve found in a long time, if not in my cycling life.

Oh, by the way, I rode—from what I measured on my maps—164 km, or a little more than 101 miles.  That means I rode my first non-metric century of the year.

(By the way, I've written a post about the town itself on my other blog.)

Memorial Day Rides

On Memorial Day last year, I rode Arielle out to Somerville to see the Tour of Somerville.  For a decades, when there were no professional races in the US, Somerville was probably as close as we came to having an event that in any way resembled European races.   The top cyclists in this country--and a few from overseas--would compete.  

When I think about some of those riders--Jackie Simes, for example, and even John Howard--I have to wonder whether they would have been among the world's elite had they been able to train with, and compete against, Franch, Italian, Belgian, Dutch, Spanish and English riders throughout their careers.  Sometimes I think that might have been the only difference between them and Greg Le Mond and Lance Armstrong (putting aside, of course, the issue of drugs).

Anyway, Somerville has remained a showcase for the best American racing cyclists.  But there are other races--and a plethora of other organized rides--on the calendar for this day.  My guess is that for a lot of people, cycling season begins with Spring, whenever that comes, but the season really swings into high gear about now.

From Will Bike For Change (or Pie)

 Gotta love that bow!

The Burn

As I mentioned, on Saturday I rode to Connecticut.  It is my second-longest ride (75 miles or 120 km) this year; only the Memorial Day ride I took to and from Somerville (101 miles or 163 km) was longer.

However, I felt more tired at the end of Saturday's ride, in spite of the fact that I spent some time in the saddle between those two rides.  There are several possible explanations.  

One is that Saturday as a warmer day.(86F or 30 C in Greenwich vs. 72 F or 22C in Somerville). Another is that on the Somerville ride, I did almost all of my climbing on the way out,whereas I had to contend with a couple of upslopes (albeit smaller) on my way home from Connecticut.

But I think the most important factor was the sun.  Both days were nearly cloudless, but I think that in the two weeks between the two rides, the sun's rays had grown more intense.  I used even more sunscreen the other day, but I still burned:

Well, at least I didn't have any interviews today:

I will be more careful about my jewelry selection on my next ride:

From the Unofficial Ride To Biking In Boulder

All right. So that last picture isn't mine. But you get the idea.

At least I didn't get the "waffle burn" on the backs of my hands, even though I was wearing my crochet-backed gloves!

In all, though, I can't say it's any worse than getting "road rash",although the latter can give you bragging rights in some circles.

What I Remembered On My Memorial Day Ride

I can't think of any bike ride I've taken, at any time in my life, that didn't leave me in a better state, in some way or another, than I was in before the ride.

Sometimes it's the exhiliaration of riding a particular distance, up a mountain or across some other type of difficult terrain. Other times, the euphoria can come from having braved rough weather conditions--or enjoying favorable ones.  Or we can be happy about something we've seen, someone we've met or a meal or snack we've eaten (or drunk!) along the way. 

I was happy I took my ride to Somerville on Memorial Day because, as I mentioned, I got to see a race and I pedaled my first (non-metric) century in three years. But, ironically enough, some of the happiness I felt from doing, and having done, the ride came from the moments of melancholy I experienced along the way.

You see, along the way, I rode along roads, through places, I hadn't seen in a very long time.  But I once rode them routinely, especially when I was a student at Rutgers and during the time I lived in the area after returning from living in  France.  

Sometimes I rode with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club, back when long-distance (or almost any adult) cyclists were still geeks of a sort.  In those days, most people who didn't live within a town or two also didn't know about the race, let alone the Tour de France or the Giro d'Italia.  And most motorists had no idea of what to do when a cyclist was on the road.  (Many still don't.) 

Much of what I saw, and experienced was familiar to me.  Road surfaces on Route 28 in and around Plainfield and Bound Brook were just as bad as I remembered them.  Of course, that added to the charm of Monday's ride.  Also, the towns I saw along the way hadn't changed nearly as much as I expected.  Sure, there were some new houses and office buildings, and the complexions of some towns' residents had darkened or lightened, but they--and everything around them--were unmistakably Central New Jersey.  In other words, they're close enough to New York that many commute to it, but far enough not to seem like a suburb of the Big Apple.  Also, even in an affluent town like Westfield--whose downtown has stores that rival those of other high-income enclaves--there is still the down-to-earth quality one finds in more working-class towns like Bound Brook and Plainfield, a quality I don't find, say, on Long Island.

Also, I found myself re-connecting with a rhythm of riding I didn't realize I followed through all of those years I lived and rode in the area.  New Jersey, of course, doesn't have the kind of mountains that Colorado or Vermont have.  But, when you ride in New Jersey, you can count on this general principle:  If you are riding north or west, you're going to higher ground.  So, you can expect to do some climbing.  Because many extant roads in the Garden State were created by simply paving over older roads (or even trails)--some of which date to the Revolution or even earlier--climbs tend to come more suddenly.  You climb mostly in short bursts because there's often very little to lead up to it.  More modern roads have more gradual (if longer) inclines and longer straightways leading to them mainly because modern road-building techniques made such things possible.

Also, if you pedal south or west, there's a good chance you'll be riding into the wind (if indeed there is any).  In thinking back to the days when I rode almost daily in that area, I realize that I often, unconsciously, rode in accordance with the terrain and wind patterns I noticed on Monday.

I guess some rides--especially if we begin them when we're young--never end.

My Tour To Somerville

Memorial Day was cool and a bit windy.  The former part I like; the question was what to do about the latter.

Of course, if you're a savvy old cyclist, you plan a ride in which you're pedaling into the wind on your way out.  That way, the wind blows you back home. 

Plus, Arielle was begging not to go on just any old ride.  She wanted to see a race. 

 
Because she's been good to me, I granted her wish.  Actually, she granted mine, too:  I felt like taking a nice, long ride.

Where did we end up?

  
No, we didn't go to the hotel, as interesting as it is.  But we went to the eponymous county--out in West-Central New Jersey.

Said hotel is located in the county seat, just down the street from the courthouse.  The name of that town is Somerville.   If you're a bike racing fan, you've heard of it:

    
The Tour of Somerville Cycling Series is a three-day event that includes several races (including a women's race) andculminates with a Senior Men's 50-mile race on the afternoon of Memorial Day.  The series has run every year since 1947.  Actually, 1940 witnessed the first Series; World War II suspended it from 1943 to 1946.  The Senior Men's Race is  officially named the Kugler-Ross Memorial Tour of Somerville, in honor of the first two winners:  Furman Kugler (1940 and 41) and Carl Anderson (1942).  Both were killed while fighting the war.

For a long time--particularly during the Dark Ages of US cycling (roughly the two decades after World War II), the ToS was, arguably, the sport's biggest--or only--showcase in the US.   Whoever won the race was generally acknowledged to be the best American cyclist.  

Calling the race a "tour" in not some francophilic (or europhilic) affectation.  Rather, it was a legalism the race's founder pulled off just so it could be held at all.   At the time, New Jersey state law prohibited racing for prizes on highways.  Somerville's Main Street is State Highway 28.  So Fred Kugler (Furman's father) labelled the Somerville event a "tour".

As you might expect, many townspeople and residents of nearby communities turn out for the event, as there is no admission charge.  Also, because the races are held on a loop of closed-off street and are therefore fast and full of tight turns, they excite even non-cycling fans.

One of the more amusing aspects of the race is watching people cross the street after the peloton has passed--until the next lap, anyway.

 
They have to be quick:

 
 Otherwise, they could meet an unhappy ending:

 
 All right.  He didn't cross the path of the peloton. He wandered into US Highway 22, which I crossed en route.  Perhaps another race will be a memorial for him.

Seriously, everyone else seemed to be having  a good time. And, given the routes I took, I ended up doing a century.  I mean, an Imperial, not a Metric One.  101 miles, to be exact.