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.)
