I am Moving to Mohave

Let me say this – I understand that rain is necessary. It waters plants, fills our reservoirs, etc. etc. etc. However, I am bit sick of being damp. Damp and spandex equals chafing. And where on the body the chafing occurs, well, I can’t really discuss it in mixed company.

Now, Eve, Dawn and yours truly (the Jersey City contingent of TNT’s 100-mile group) got it into our heads a few weeks back to do our own ride in our hometown of Rockland County. I’m originally from New City, if any one was curious. The group rides that we religiously attend occur 40 minutes away in the tony bucolic bliss known as Basking Ridge. Basking Ridge is Greenwich, Conn., but the gargantuan houses there actually have property around them.

Here comes the irony: We rescheduled our hometown ride to Sunday from Saturday because of the inclement weather forecast. And any one who was around this weekend realizes that was a big mistake. On Sunday, the tri-state area was hit with record rainfall – the most rain in a single 24-hour period.

So, yes, I was riding in that. The rain fell with such intensity that it stung your face. I’d like to coin a new word because of this “rainburn” – it’s the redness caused by torrential downpour to the face accompanied by a chorus of wind and cold.

And that bring up another key difference between Sunday and Saturday. On Saturday, the air was calm, and the temperature made it possible to endure the light mist of rain quite comfortably, if comfort is the right word to use when riding more than 58 miles in the rain (yes, the cue sheet had a 55-mile route, and I will get to that in due course).

But let’s get back to Sunday. Eve and Dawn skipped the Saturday ride to attend a Yard Sale fundraiser, so they wanted to do a 60-mile ride to make up for it. So, with a bit of googling, we found a cue sheet that was fairly challenging to get us from Fort Lee, NJ into the welcoming avenues of downtown Nyack, NY.

But we found out far too late that this cue sheet laid out such a route that it resembled an unkempt fishing line – gnarled, confused and utterly frustrating. Signs were bent or missing and street names changed inexplicably and far too often. The intense rainfall, flooding and fog exacerbated the confusion and the ride was about as fun as accidentally dropping a hammer on your big toe.

After more than an hour of twisting and turning the back roads of northern New Jersey, we opted for a more direct route – Route 9W – which is a straight shot to Nyack. As if to punish us for veering from the proscribed directions, the rain came down with renewed vigor, and that’s when I likely got the rainburn.

We limped into Nyack, soaked everywhere but where our rain jackets were able to shield us, and slipped through a deserted street fair. Vendors huddled under their white, collapsible tents with forlorn eyes, as their hopes of a day of brisk sales withered with every passing minute.
The rain had emptied the streets and the cordoned off streets barring cars from the street fair made the area seem even more barren.

We slumped down at a table at one of those nameless pizza places found in Anywhere, USA. As we gnawed on reheated chicken rolls and Sicilian slices, we licked our damp wounds, we plotted our retreat.

We watched through the glass as vendors tucked and folded their booths away, with some realizing too late how much rain had amassed on their tent roofs. And within the shop, a man with a mop followed us around like a newborn duckling as we formed pools wherever we stood.

Then it was official. We called a full retreat, and Eve’s mother. So, Eve’s mother picked up Eve to get the Volvo with the big trunk to take back to Nyack to pick us all up, to then take us back to Fort Lee where our own cars were. Then we’d all go back to Jersey City, and Eve would return the Volvo some other time.

I would have liked to have toughed it out and finished the ride, but wet spandex just isn’t that toasty warm and the slightest breeze set my teeth to chattering out the Gettysburg Address in Morse code.

The kicker was that the moment we got home, the clouds parted, the sun blessed the damp ground with its blanket of warmth. And that was the first time that I can recall being really ticked off at the sun coming out. We had planned to ride 60 miles, but only completed a measly 20 that felt like we had ridden 80.

And that brings us back, in reverse chronological order, to Saturday.

I knew it was to rain, so I had brought my newly purchased clear plastic rain jacket, worn my socks usually reserved for snowboarding, wore my insulated glove liners and had my new Pearl Izumi skull cap keeping my head toasty under my helmet.

What I didn’t have this time out was “GPS Eric”. This ride it was Paul (yes, that Paul) and myself out front. Becky, who going forward will be called “the Valkyrie” for her legendary strength, SuperDwight and Paul took the lead. I found I could not keep apace, as I had been out at the most outlandishly Italianous wedding extravaganza on the Eastern seaboard the night before, not getting to bed until 3 am. (Discussion of the wedding would need a whole other blog, and perhaps a few restraining orders)

But Paul ended up falling back and Dwight did his usual disappearing act, leaving the two Stooges to their own devices. So, we promptly missed a turn, of course. Dwight, out of the void swooped in and set us on a detour that had us almost eerily meeting up this the rest of the group.

But after a time, I grew restless and broke from the pack and Paul, glutton for punishment, followed along. So, zipping a ahead but too far behind the Valyrie to follow, we missed a second turn after the two of us nearly fell on entirely too slick metal grid bridge in some town ending in -ville. The surface of the bridge resembles a cheese grater, and my rear end nearly became a piece of cheddar. But we made it across unscathed and also unaware that we had just passed an immediate left turn. About a mile or so later we realized our error.

When we finally made it back to our respective cars, just more than four hours from when we started, Paul and I logged 58 miles – about five miles more than we were instructed. I prefer to look at us as overachievers as opposed to lummoxes who can’t bother to follow simple directions.

Dwight handed out some of the best tasting hot cider I’ve ever tasted and “the Valkyrie” proceeded to tear into Paul and I, as if we had botched the instructions on how to boil water. My argument was we were only 5 miles off, which is one-third as lost as we got last time. In that respect, it was a great improvement, perhaps even a victory.

Paul and I headed to the Lemon Lounge, each ordering medium rare aptly named “Bad Day Burgers.” And I wolfed it down, in a bliss that can only come from not knowing exactly how screwed I would be just a few hours later on Sunday.