About the ride: Tales fron NJ's streets
Winter 43
Riding a bicycle in Morris-Union county takes some getting used to. There are quite a few large hills, narrow roads,and SUV drivers. Riding a bicycle in this area of the Garden State in winter time takes all that, and what's more, warm gloves.
The Lemond Nevada City, '02's model, is made with top-of-the-line Reynolds 853 tubing, the last year that they apparently made it so [Lemond has since removed its low-end, high quality steel frames from its lineup]. With its unique frame geometry and triple crankset, the Lemond is a hillkiller. Indeed, that February day, it was hard to think of riding a different bike as I wound my way along Long Hill Road, looking down at the valley and the parrallel track of Valley Road. From the ground you wouldn't think it was a valley; it was only when you began climbing those hills, working your way up, the you realized the height.
Long Hill Rd. is a fairly common stretch of blacktop to local cyclists; it is not uncommon to see others riding along its length, dodging potoles and SUV's. But that morning, with the mercury hovering around 20-something degrees, I was the lone rider. Even the sport ute's were tucked away inside their garages; if I ran into three it was a lot!
Pulling off onto a gravelled drive, I stopped for a drink of water. The sun was out, although you couldn't feel it, and coming through the trees the view was something to behold. I just stood there for a few minutes, taking it in and thinking.
Going in this direction, I used to ride this road for speed, going as fast as I dared down its winding curves, leanin into turns and praying my old road tires would not burn off when I hit the brakes. Coming the other way, I used to ride it for the climb, often on a fixed gear; burning the muscles in my legs to full awakeness before I even stopped off at a store mid-ride for that first cup of coffee.
But that morning, I just road it. For fun; not the fun of pushing a fixie up hills that give most 20-something speed bikes pause, nor for the fun of bombing down said hills. No, this was nothing more intense than the fun of being alive and mellow and on a bicycle, while everyone was tucked inside their warm, climate-controlled homes, kindly leaving the road -- and the view -- to me.
Soon, I left The rolling hills of Long Hill Rd., heading up Springfield Ave and on my way to the rest of the 43 miles I was to do that day. As the morning turned to afternoon, the blacktop got more crowded. The temperature rose, and the people came out of their houses. But I still had the road.
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The Last Coffee Run
It was December of '03, and I was riding a vintage Nishiki Modulus with downtube shifters on a brisk -- but not cold -- morning. Not quite 40 degrees. I slipped on my helmet and clicked into the clipless pedals before heading off down the drive and rolling away towards Madison, NJ.
I had gone to school in Madison, and was then in my last year of university. As such, the town was familiar to me in a very personal way; its streets of worn asphalt were my own; its hills and curves mine to explore and know. I had ridden that town many times, many ways; from Chatham, coming down Main Street past the CVS; down Southern Bldv. and under the bridge right into downtown; Through the swamp and in from Green Village, past my friend's brother's pizza place.
I knew every side street, every pothole. In my early college days, I used to ride at night without a headlight, because I had the locations of the potholes committed to memory. And all roads led to the coffee shop.
The sweet dreams cafe on Lincoln Place, Madison, was the kind of place they don't make anymore; the kind of place you could stop for a quick coffee to go, or sit and relax and have coffee. Or lunch. They had Blakes root beer, and their coffee was strong as hell and black as my karmic record.
I used to stop there all the time, and ride home on my bike late at night. It'd be close to 1:30am when the band packed it in and I headed out to go home. sometimes i didn't get home 'til 2am, but I was used to it, and didn't mind. But then they went non-smoking at the behest of a mean-spirited landlord, and the regulars stopped coming. Customer turnout dwindled. They began to close early. The live music that used to fill the cafe Friday and Saturday nights until 1am faded, no more than a memory, like the faded sign painted on backside of the building advertising some long-forgotten product. Still, I kept coming.
Heading down Southern Blvd., I remembered how the town had changed. Used to be, you could just come down King's Rd. and turn onto Waveryly, then a quick right onto Lincoln place. No more. A small legion of "NO LEFT TURN" signs adorned the roadside, now, and arrows pointing "straight" and "right" told the same story. And Chatham! It took forever to cover the three blocks of downtown Chatham, bumper to bumper traffic from red light to red light. It was not a street, it was a parking lot. What had happened to things?
CD Express, the music store under the railroad bridge, had closed up shop. It had been forever since I'd been in Alfred's sporting goods, but it was still there. The town had installed a fancy commemerative clock on the spot where Wavely intersected with Main St. I shifted back into the outermost rear cog and began to spin freneticly. And the Nautilus Diner had gone nonsmoking!
The world I had grown up with was changing fast, evolving. The SUV had replaced the station wagon; the MP3 the cassette and CD. All I could think of was a line from an old song. "...And I struggle to cross a generation of fences..." The roads I had known so intimately were beginning to look unfamiliar, no longer so sure of their destinations. Is this progress? I wondered. If so, towards what?
Southern Blvd. ended and another name picked up where it left off. I kept going, past the gas station ont he corner and the second golf course. The road rose up to meet me, a brief hill, and I clicked into a slightly easier gear and stood on the spinning pedals. The climb turned into a crest, then leveled off and began descending. Then I was past the church, King's Rd. and onto Main St. I road around and then came up towards to Cafe. I saw the sign on the door before I even stopped the bike; read the words a few times before I was able to digest them. The coffee shop was closed. The sign on the door said it all; "RIP Sweet Dreams Cafe". It was like a post-script to my life up to that point; college was ending; a "real job" and that beckoning mirage called "the future" loomed on the horizon. Now the coffee shop was gone too.
I didn't know where to go. I felt old. Tired. Like I was going to puke. Then I knew what I had to do. I got back on the bike. And I kept going.
I can't recall how many miles I covered that day, on the last coffee run. But I know that the actual distance was immeasurable. I set out as a college student, but I returned as a student of life.
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