Riegelsville to Frenchtown

The Riegelsville to Frenchtown ride winds through New Jersey farmland, dipping into cornfields, past grazing livestock and simple country churches.

I love this ride. I haven't done it in probably five years.

The route features a single-lane stretch with clay cliffs at arm's length on the left and the Delaware River on the right, a well-timed espresso at Maria's in Frenchtown, and a couple of screaming descents on the way back.

I love this ride, and I've been wondering lately if it's a coincidence that I haven't loved riding my bike since this ride fell off my regular rotation.

And so, with a day off from work on Friday and a long ride on the training schedule, I decide it's time to revisit it. I have little expectation besides long, slow distance. It won't take more than 45 minutes to get to Maria's, but maybe I'll travel further down Route 29 to make it 90 minutes out and back for a total of 3 hours.

I head south from Frenchtown after licking the last of the strong, sugary coffee from the corners of my mouth. Route 29 is flat. Its shoulders are wide. The air is crisp and the sun is shining.
"You're going at a good pace," says a voice coming up behind me.

"I'm just going along," I chuckle and glance to the left.

He is riding an old-model Fuji with Speedplay pedals, and wearing an orange Giro helmet circa 2000, a local team jersey, Northwave shoes, no socks. (Funny, the details you absorb in the space of a second.)

"No, you're really moving," he says.

I expect he'll blow by (because, really, I'm not moving that fast) but instead he stays about a foot to my left.

Conversation bubbles up, as though we're sitting next to each other on a plane. Are you training for something in particular? How do you have the afternoon off? What kind of work do you do? Do you have kids? Nice bike.

And incredibly we have a lot to talk about, including a list of injuries that make riding a little less fun than it once was.

The "Stockton 11" sign flashes by and I decide that's where I'll turn around and Bob can go on without me.

Except now we are really moving because he is picking up the pace while we chat about the World Cup, the Tour, our pre-teen daughters, the beach.

My head starts to float, eyes focusing straight ahead, my breath getting louder. I want to appear in control, at total ease, like I'm riding well below my threshold, but it becomes increasingly more difficult.

Bob isn't chatting any more. But he's not riding away. We are now on this ride together.

There's no way I can keep this up all the way to Stockton, I think. And if I do, the ride back to Riegelsville will be a long, slow slog.

The road passes quickly under our wheels, my heart is beating hard. I am close to blowing up. I'm breathless.

We talk velodrome racing, carbon frames, why you need to push yourself hard sometimes, how much better it is to ride with people.

My hands are loose on the hoods. My elbows bent slightly, relaxed. I'm smiling.

I lose track of the miles. Together we lean into the twisting turns that skirt Stockton. When Bob ducks into a school parking lot, I secretly hope that he's decided to drop me because I know I can't maintain this effort much longer.

But as he heads right back out, he says, "You coming?"

"I'm not sure I can hold this pace," I say. He nods imperceptibly and takes it down a notch.

For about a minute.

So I resolve to just stick to his wheel and dig in.

I catch quick glimpses of the river, now on our left. My breath is short, my nose is running, my adrenaline is flowing.

I am almost giddy.

This has become a bike ride. This is not a drill or a threshold interval, not another solo aerobic effort where the minutes drag by, not "training." This is a real ride.

When we get back to Frenchtown, Bob mentions casually that we've averaged about 20 mph for the last 25 miles. I am stunned and grateful. We both agree we'd never sustain that kind of pace alone.

"Well, thanks," I say after we take a quick water break."It was great riding with you." I want to gush about how much fun it's been and how grateful I am that he didn't drop me and wasn't patronizing. But he's a total stranger, really. So I hold back.

"Oh, I'll head up the road with you a bit," Bob says. And so we ride the remaining 11 or so miles to Riegelsville at a pace I wouldn't consider a cool down.

Along the way, he shows me a hidden riverside lane I've never ridden and tells me about a secret fresh water spring where cyclists can refill water bottles.

We go our separate ways at the R'ville bridge, email addresses exchanged, because we both agree that it's hard to find good riding company and, well, it was a great way to spend a beautiful Friday afternoon.

And for the rest of the day I can't stop thinking about how much I love riding my bike.

 The bridge across the Delaware from Riegelsville, PA, to the Jersey side.