creakybottombracket.com

Ride Distance: 43 Miles/ 227 Miles Remain

 Sometimes I write articles, lay them off to the interwebs, and then expect accolades of the highest calling. I think, “This will be the article of the century!” I’ll spend a couple of days expecting my online column to rise to the top as most read article. Except it often does not. Then there are articles that inflict curiosity as to why they are so often read.

 Take an old article for instance. It was an essay called ‘On a Heat Wave.’ It was the story of a ride in midsummer where I intended to chase my friend down who had departed at a slightly reasonable time for me to consider catching him. I rode hard relishing the moment when I would jokingly rip by him and seem as if I would continue on with a bullying, “On your left.” I never did catch him, nor did I find out how close I was.

 That story popped into my mind as I caught a glorious tailwind on Route 29 in New Jersey for the final leg home. One of the hurdles for the Rapha Festive 500 is life obligation. Our famous ridekick Mike had shown up at the creakybottombracket.com office to make his ride a duo. Unfortunately I was not able to go at the time but told him of my intended route. Perhaps I could ride him down. Perhaps.

 I was racing three mental finish lines. I had come up a bit short on yesterday’s average of 45 miles for a seven-day Festive 500. I respect the challenge enough to know every mile counts, and the possibility of coming up short again today would make the final days concerning. I was racing to get closer to the average than yesterday. Then there was the belief I could catch Mike. I was encouraged to ride faster as I saw numerous salty bike tire tracks along the route. He’s just up ahead I thought. With my late start time I was constantly doing the maths to make sure I was back before darkness descended. Sometimes a sunset is all we need for motivation.

 I couldn’t help think back to my summertime article that featured a photo of bubbling asphalt. On that ride I eventually lost all power on account of the heat. Here today I was riding in early winter gear and getting faster each mile. There was enough fuel in the furnace to keep me going. With this in mind perhaps I was going to catch Mike yet.

 In the end I came close to the 45-mile average. I never did catch Mike. Perhaps I could have caught him with a couple of minute head start and his not knowing of my pursuit. I left over an hour after him; there was no way I would even see a hint of his Curbar winter kit. I rolled to the final stop light just outside of the creakybottombracket.com offices where I removed my sunglasses to help see in the increasing darkness. Cloud cover had expedited the fading light.

Ride Distance: 40 Miles/ 270 Miles Remaining

 It was the opening shot of the 2018 Rapha Festive 500, an unofficial affair challenging riders to do 500 outdoor kilometers between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. Should one be able to ride daily 39 miles per day would suffice to complete the challenge. It never works out that way. On the first day I managed to get just shy of the distance I needed with one day off scheduled. This is hardly an experience to shake a stick at.

 I have joked about participating in every type of Festive 500. I have successfully completed it in 2015, dropped out in 2016, and never got started last year on account of lousy weather. The only experience I lack is covering all three hundred miles in one attempt. I don’t foresee myself checking that box off anytime soon. Having diverse experiences equates to respect for the Festive. It is an earned roundel.

 I am not attempting the 2018 Festive 500 alone. The opening miles of the challenge were ridden in the company of the world famous Mike. He has expressed his interest in completing his first 500-kilometer offseason ride. We stuck to our loose plan of exploring and circumnavigating reservoirs. The first day saw us loop Lake Nockamixon, a route that gave us frequent flashbacks to the Nox Century all those years ago. Many roads we rolled along had been paved this past summer. The regularly peaceful setting was broken only by substantial headwind or pleasant conversation.

 The conversation frequently returned to strategy for the Festive. Most people will not be riding on December 25 based on their observations. Removing one day from covering miles adds a small amount to the daily average, five to be exact. What becomes a concern is the day off could come back to make the event more difficult. Another words, missing another day on account of weather or obligations is likely to remove one from the running. Suggestions were even thrown around to sneak in a dozen miles on Christmas just to keep them rising.

 We received a sample of the Festive experience on Christmas Eve. There were biting headwinds, but there were rocket tailwinds coming home. There were pitted roads, but there were also smooth stretches. The ride’s commencement was comfortable, but a cold front slowly descended and the ride ended with a seeping freeze. I miss the days when post-ride shivers continue into dinner. Those were good group rides.

Just two days ago I bagged Thanksgiving as a holiday where I commuted to the gathering. It was a nearly-last-minute idea despite the frigid temperature, but I motivated myself to get out the door and enjoy the ride of a point-to-point experience. Some might have stared at the average speed on the Garmin while others may have hammered to the destination in hopes of burning extra calories. I mostly appreciated the empty streets as I wound back road to back road to get to Thanksgiving dinner. Biking to a holiday gathering is something I could get used to.

 According to creakybottombracket.com metrics there are numerous international readers. It’s not surprising that many American readers cannot even provide a correct basis for the Thanksgiving holiday. While the roots are laid in 1620 when ‘Pilgrims’ landed in the ‘New World’ the holiday itself was a slugfest prior to the American Civil War. Both the south (Jamestown, VA) and the north (Plymouth, MA) assumed authority over the original Thanksgiving. When the book On Plimouth Plantation was rediscovered, president Lincoln solidified the northern story of Thanksgiving as fact and established the next-to-last Thursday of November as a national holiday. It was also a time when turkey providers were struggling to maintain their presence in the meat market. The rest, they say, is history.

 It is because of scores of traditions, morphed and unrecognizable, evolved into contemporary celebrations that I found myself rolling along tertiary roads to meet up with family for the yearly Thanksgiving celebration. It was twenty degrees out and substantial headwind for the majority of the ride, but I was enjoying every mile of it. It was also to be my most ambitious ride since my last race as an amateur. My back injuries still nag from time to time; my confidence in its success was quite low. I brought my flat repair kit but knew I was going to call for the team car if an issue arose.

 As I wound from Bucks County to Montgomery County I realized new senses. I first noticed the newly repaved roads along my route. Roads I thought were consigned to the future-resurfacing plan received new asphalt before the cold weather arrived. I rolled along on blissfully flat roads to connect with my route. Furthermore I concerned myself with my attire but found my base layers and outer layers up to the task. I bordered on the unexpected edge of being overdressed. Ever present was the smell of oven-cooked turkey, oven baked ham, and I swear I smelled several grills alight with fowl. Considering I brought no nutrition the aromas were enticing. Meanwhile I sighted few cars along my twenty-mile route while taking in the well-dressed attendees carrying their dishes into a dwelling. They looked at me as completely insane for riding in sub-freezing temperatures.

 All this I discovered while riding but eventually a connection was made. Two years ago I had ridden on New Year’s Day to retrieve a car from a wedding celebration. Here I was riding to a Thanksgiving gathering. I began to wonder how many fellow cyclists have thought about using the bike as a means of transport on holidays. This meandering thought led to me thinking that cyclists should ride to all holiday gathering. And why not? We are the citizens of simplicity. Sometimes I get a kick out of seeing people’s reactions when the piece together the fact I rode the same route they drove. Why would you do such a thing they might ask? Because I can would be my response. I began thinking of other holidays I could bike to. 

 I would like to give thanks that I can ride a bike to a gathering location, as corny as it sounds. But I would like to challenge all cyclists to ride to their holiday location (within reason). Perhaps a hard charging New Year’s Eve means the car was responsibly left at a car park. Riding to get it the next morning could be cleansing. The area of creakybottombracket.com is famous for its Independence Day fireworks at Tinicum Park. Why not ride to – and from – the natural amphitheater by skipping the traffic? If it takes the same amount of time to ride a bike as it does a car, shouldn’t enjoyment be taken into consideration?

Do you have a moment to talk about decaffeinated coffee? Wait. Come back. Like you I was put off by the removal of the key molecular structure in coffee. I love the jazzed feeling I get; it’s why I religiously brew a heavy afternoon dosage. That afternoon serving was the hand-sling for the second half of my day. Or so I thought.

 We have all been there: we reach for the pot of warm coffee that smells delicious. Unknowingly we pour the dark stuff into our favorite mug and let the steam rise along with anticipation. The eagerness is part of the brewing process. But in decaffeinated world, the first sip is one of many disconnects in an experience. The last time I tried decaf coffee I had to pour it down the sink on flavor alone. It tasted altered.

 On a recent brewing of morning coffee - a copious amount for one person I might add - I tried to break down the ratios of coffee enjoyment. The obvious first trait of coffee is the explosive productivity that follows shortly after. No doubt this is the caffeine and its effects. The other aspect was the warmth of coffee. On brisk fall rides or afternoon winter stopovers, a cup does wonders for warmth. So which attribute did I prefer most?

 I can tell when I have made too strong of a cup when anxiety sets in when I should be winding down. Having too strong of a pot in the morning led to the restructuring of the afternoon dosage. I stopped having a brew at the mid-day because the morning jolt was still in sway. I must have overloaded myself because there were numerous days when I struggled to fall asleep. I had to eliminate the second helping of coffee.

 Or did I? Dare I venture into the realm of decaffeinated coffee? My alternatives were simple. I could,migrate to iced coffee or nitro coffee. Few places do iced coffee correctly. The omission of coffee ice cubes deters me from ordering iced coffee from establishments. Both nitro and iced coffee are more potent, too, so there’s that. I could return to drinking cola but after breaking the habit of a decade-long addiction, I ruled that out. I missed my afternoon comfort blanket. 

 Recently the Missus made a request prior to my Homestead Coffee Roasters run. She asked for decaf. After the expected gasp complete with defense hands, I breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe this was the answer to my problem. When setting foot in the coffee room at Homestead General Store I lacked the knowledge of locating their decaffeinated Steady Eddy offering. Perhaps, I thought, they stored it in the back, where shame goes. I found a box of it simply enough, right next to the entrance. 

 Bringing the coffee home was another experience. I brewed a pot after work, not wanting another caffeine insomnia. The hot stuff went into the mug and moments later I sipped. For a roast that is described as ‘dense and smoky’ I was mostly curious leading into the first helping. I was afraid of it tasting altered like my last experience. Instead I found enjoyment. After two sips I offered it to the Missus. She did not give the mug back. She agreed it was delicious. Could it be I have solved the mid-day jolt? Is the warmth of coffee more important than the jet-like explosion? 

 After a few days of brewing up Homestead Coffee Roasters’ decaffeinated Steady Eddy, I have enjoyed a slightly altered version of the red-eye I used to whip up. Do you have a moment to talk about decaf coffee? Perhaps it’s 2am and you’re still awake because you overestimated how much of a jolt you needed for your day. The nice aspect about Steady Eddy is the ability to drink it and convince you there still is caffeine in the mug. What is actually in the coffee is a lot of flavor. Having a little comfort helps too.

Before we bid August – and essentially summer in the northern hemisphere – adieu there is always anticipation for what is next. Next weekend is the Bucks County Classic; a race by all approaches sounds the alarm on the 2018 road-racing season around here. It has been a long season, full of ups and downs, and a paradoxical eagerness to end my final season of racing has been setting in.

 I set out to do a couple of races this year I had not tried. I am glad I circled the motorsports of Lime Rock, Connecticut. I also visited a well-entrenched race, the Tour of Somerville. I circled Media for the first year of that event. It would not be a summer of racing without one visit to Rodale Park for any number of rotating sponsor name bike races. Though I missed a handful of races I wanted to do, I have put in a good turn with one final obstacle remaining in Doylestown. 

 Amidst all the stress of trying to improve multiple years’ worth of race results, I have recently found myself eager for the off-season. Having a full calendar of races has given me focus. I would be lying if I said I was not concerned to get through trainer workouts in the winter. What would I be working towards for 2019? Outside rides have found me making a case for stopping at a favorite coffee shop and letting the heart rate come down. Once the autumn hits, I fully expect to find myself slid in a restaurant chair laying out my cycling gear next to a steaming cup of coffee.

 The best part is I’m prepared for that to happen. Over the past few months I have been handing over my coffee punch cards to get marked. When one has filled up I stash it away and quickly reach for a fresh card. I have a couple of free coffee cards occupying my cycling wallet ready to be used the moment my race retirement starts. At events I have had a small gaggle of people ask if I write for creakybottombracket.com. I doubt anyone will come up to me at a coffee shop and inquire the same way. 

 I have wondered if cyclists around the world have collected multiple coffee cards to stash in jersey pockets and cycling wallets. What is there to lose? They weigh nothing but are valued around $2. They cost a dozen dollars to punch fully but all I see is free. I frown when I part with a couple dollar bills but pull a cheesy smile when I hand over the free coffee card. Like a break from cycling, the coffee card feels hard earned and deserving. This sort of belief must be global.

 Last weekend’s ride saw me buzz past several coffee shops without stopping. I want to have a rewarding showing next weekend. I hesitated to carry on past Homestead Coffee, made more difficult by the fact I had to walk the bike over the bridge near their parking lot. Hopping onto 519 I could have continued south just a bit more and scooted my card across the counter at Rojo’s Roastery in Lambertville. Or maybe I could have stopped at Stockton Farmer's Market and traded a La Colombe dark roast for a piece of creased cardboard. I was focused enough on next weekend to carry on. Soon I’ll interrogate, ‘What does it matter if I stop or not’ and pull into one of these establishments. 

I was once asked why I focus on the Belgian culture when it comes to cycling. Admittedly I was caught off guard and struggled to provide a succinct response to satisfy such an inquiry. That’s what is great about riding a bike outside of competition. One can work on a response to such a question. I slowly developed the sentiments over the last few rides.

 I remember my first taste of freedom; a bicycle accompanied it. My parents reluctantly allowed me to ride into Doylestown around the age of eleven on my own. From my parents’ house the town limit is hardly far away. The obstacles involved riding roads featuring no shoulder as well as a cultural perception that the roads were only for cars. I was given the nod to ride into town extremely early on a weekend morning, a time when the fewest amount of cars would be out.

 I remember the boundless feeling that anything destination was possible if I put my mind to it. Rolling around town early in the morning was a lesson in morning routines for businesses. Parking spots were empty. Some were filled with delivery trucks. Stoplights winked without any cars setting them off. The shadows of buildings were long. I rode to the most northern store in town, K-Mart, and did very little with it. I can’t remember if I bought anything or not. It didn’t matter. I was free to do what I wanted.

 The freedom had to dissipate at some point. There are only so many places one can go when the town isn't opened. I rode around town a bit more and then began my journey home. Here I learned fatigue as a ride this long was hard. I made my way back home, sometimes on some busy roads that were picking up in usage. I returned home not long after I left, probably around two hours’ time. I felt like I was gone for an eternity.

 What does this all have to do with Belgium? On that ride many years ago I never once touched a bike path or bike lane. I wasn’t avoiding them. They did not exist at that time. Today if I left from my parents’ house (who still live in the same place) I could accomplish the ride via a bike lane or path for nearly 90% of the time. At an unbelievable thought I could access the next county – a distance of about six miles westward – using nothing but a bike path. This is an obvious improvement in the span of a couple decades. 

 Belgium and the surrounding countries have prioritized the bicycle as mode of transportation mentioned in the same breath as buses, cars, trucks, and motorcycles. Their professional cyclists ride with brute force rather than floating up some endless mountain road. I yearn to live in a society where cyclists are prioritized as much as the farmer’s tractor, the postal truck, the commuting motorist, and the working pick-up truck. 

 Mad Alchemy replenished their Belgiephile socks on their site and I had to snap them up. At the end of last year we published our yearly Holiday List and made sure the Belgiephile socks were on the ‘want’ list. Mad Alchemy products have been piling up in our creakybottombracket.com office for good reason. They make great products; they design aesthetically pleasing garments. I have occasionally gotten on a wheel of a rider solely because s/he is sporting Mad Alchemy gear.

About a decade ago, during the exciting time of the Indy Racing League (Indy Cars) one driver propelled a lesser team to the winning circle based on his preference of going around the track. His style of racing was remarkable with regards to the speed and closeness he ran to his competitors. All the while his hands were as loose as could be on the steering wheel. Retired racers from other forms of competition would state when he was racing, they had to turn the channel on account of sweaty palms.

 There was one race in particular that made Sam Hornish, Jr. and his Panther Racing team exciting to watch. Texas Motor Speedway was a full throttle display in trust. Buzzing around the two-mile semi-oval the cars remained inches apart either on the banking, down the back straight, or through the double dogleg of the front stretch. Usually at the front was Sam Hornish, Jr.’s yellow Pennzoil car occupying his oddly preferred line: the outside line. He wanted to be there. He fought to be there. I imagine the other drivers had no qualms about his desire to take the longer way around the track.

 Among the plethora of reasons running one lane up from the bottom is avant-garde is that it is not the preferred line. Those extra feet add up over the course of dozens of miles. There’s the trust factor. Putting pressure on your fellow driver by going outside and staying out there for laps on end can be exhausting to both competitors. Am I looking forward while driving or looking out of the side of my eyes to see what he’s doing? Not only is it longer to go around the high side of the track, it’s also not economical for two racers to slug it out while those in front drive away and those behind bunch up. I shouldn’t have to point out the safety aspect that if the driver on the inside loses his nerve or traction, the occupier of the high line turns a one-car crash into a two-car melee.

 These were all the thoughts I had while buzzing around the Daniel Hawri Memorial Lower Providence criterium to start the 2018 cycling racing season. Considering my turbulent off-season I had no idea what my capabilities were for the twenty-five mile distance. During my commute to the event I decided I would stay in the back and keep myself safe from any risks. This might be a flat (ish) course, but it’s fast and to the risk takers go the spoils of victory. Today I wanted to finish with the group and be satisfied with that.

 Talk about a beautiful day for racing. The skies were without clouds and the temperature at start time was a perfect 70 degrees. The sun was deceptively intense as evidenced by the red-faced official who may have gotten a little too much of the early season base. Our race was one of the last on the schedule, so he had been out the entire day. During warm-up I had noticed the wind would be a factor. Gone was any chance for a breakaway to stick. With a tailwind into the final turn the finish sprint would be dangerous, especially if someone wanted to occupy the outside line and wind up for a furious sprint.

 As I planned I hung around the back, keeping vigilant of any chance of coming unhitched from the group. The headwind would bunch things up nicely for me, the pace would pick up along the slight downhill into the wildest turn, turn three, which saw the highest speeds. Each lap was nearly identical with its pattern. Several times different riders went off the front and forced a sizeable gap only to have the wind deal too much of a resistance. The field was in no mood to let anyone get a sizeable split and chased down anything quickly. Yet each lap I realized I was hardly winded. I began having second doubts about sticking to my plan of a conservative race.

 As the laps dwindled, and the yelling at each other increased, I started wondering if I should move up. The field was getting itchy. Winter legs had been shed for preseason pistons. Where the first ten laps were acclimation to racing, the final fifteen laps were the hammers to deliver the new season. Tactics were being considered. Perhaps there were a few others riders like me who found there was a lot of gas left in the tank with few laps remaining. I noted a perfect place to get down to business just in case I found myself near the front.

 And then it happened. A few laps after I labeled the approach to the downhill turn three as the perfect place to fire off an attack, something briefly told me it was now or never. If I was going to abandon my conservative race, it was with five laps remaining. So from the very back of the pack, I watched as several riders gunned it at the exact spot I picked, sending the field into a fury. All I could do was shake my head and think I should have tried. The attack never made it more than a few bike lengths off the front, but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t have happened.

 The final laps wound down. I still found myself at the back after concluding I had missed my only chance. I had ridden the race not only in the back of the pack but also around the outside. I had channeled my inner Sam Hornish, Jr. by zipping the slightly longer way around the course. Despite this preference, the last couple corners saw me move to the inside and sprint for ‘not last’ to cross the line. Wouldn’t you know, not a single person crashed in the first race of the season?

Given the creakybottombracket.com’s proximity to Pennsylvania Dutch country, it is no surprise one of the favorite treats in the freezer dons the phrase ‘Nix Besser.’ From the not too distant part of the commonwealth Nelson’s ice cream can be found in the most unexpected places. When our eyes are laid on the quintessential packaging of a white tub with a gold cardboard lid, it gets snatched up. Only after checking out is the flavor regarded. The phrase ‘Nix Besser’ as old as the commonwealth, means ‘None Better.’

 It was by no surprise when a bottle of Nix Frix Shun ultimate chain lube rolled onto our desk that we knew what was being said. Along the same lines of tradition, the company features a catchy little slogan, ‘The Last Chain Lube You Will Ever Need.’ Based in Rockville, MD, the company is not too far from the land of the Pennsylvania Dutch. Would the ‘No Friction’ status live up to its label? We had the perfect conditions to find out.

 Before we get too far into the experiment, it must be pointed out your muse has come quite the distance from the childhood days of using Husqvarna chainsaw grease for chain lube. My dad had a jug of it in our ‘smokehouse’ (we had an old farmhouse), and I crammed a stick into the jug. I would remove the stick every once in a while and lather up the pivots to keep the bike rolling. As I moved onto road I chased the eternal favored lube. Some stuff seemed to evaporate moments after I applied a healthy dosage of lube. Other brands bragged to last 1,000 miles or more. But that means 1,000 miles of grit and gunk build up, even when wiped down.

 Immediately after a wet Sourland Semi-Classic at the end of February I found myself needing to hose of the bike in cyclocross fashion with a bike stand, a bucket of suds, and a power washer. New Jersey gravel roads carry an extra ingredient. Sand never makes a drivetrain sound healthy. The chain sucked up its fair share of road grit and sand on the metric century opening spring classic. I gave special attention to the chain to relieve it of its grinding sound. After a once-over with a rag to absorb residual moisture, I pulled out the Nixfrixshun Ultimate Chain Lube and applied it nearly every other pivot. In some places it was begging for it, but for the most part I followed the direction on the label stating ‘A little goes a long way.’

 The next day was an unscheduled recovery ride; no doubt I would be listening for any difficulty with the chain. All I heard was the wind as I covered the first few miles in happiness. Moving further the bike stayed quiet past the moments when other chain lubes would have burned off. I thought perhaps it was beginners luck and after returning I again followed the directions of wiping the outsides of the chain of any buildup.

 Throughout the week I found myself on the trainer and heard everything except a noisy chain. The gunk and grit I expected to appear long after the ride never did. I thought wiping off excess lube after rides would cause it to disappear over the weeks. It did not. Perhaps it would struggle to stand up to the melting snow puddles. Weeks later and the drivetrain is still peaceful and grit-free. Furthermore, the chain stays are clear of excessive lube, a personal pet peeve.

My suspicions about the day of riding along Sourland Semi-Classic parcours began at four in the morning. It was the sound I suspect many other riders heard: the patter of wind-blown raindrops slapping the side of the windows. For a brief moment before drifting back into my warm slumber I updated my day’s riding attire. How nice it was to pull the blanket up and sink into the mattress. The clock was ticking on those tactile moments, even if I continued to hit the snooze function on my phone.

 Breakfast was a steely inner conversation. I tried not to focus on the puddle in the backyard that had been populated by ducks at one time or another. This was the fourth day in a row for rain. Someone tell Belgium we have their weather and they ours. If I didn’t show up I would be mocked for such a decision. I’m sure it will let up by the start I thought.

 I – along with some seventy other hardy riders – concluded that a perfect weather ride in the spring is hardly worth its effort in anticipation. I loaded up the car and headed to Sourland Cycles in Hopewell, NJ, to sign in for the first Spring Classic of the season. Temperature 39 degrees and rain, though it looked like it would let up around start time.

 I had a struggle with kit options starting the night before. I thought fleece-lined bib tights would be too much, so I made plans to use leg warmers and a standard set of bibs. Oh but I only had Belgian Boys Club leg warmers, which, paradoxically I wanted to keep clean for as long as possible. I questioned whether I was hardy enough to go with knee warmers and regular bibs. Notice how my legs were becoming more exposed the more I imagined my ride. The morning of, though, the visible legs plunged from knee warmers to leg warmers to fleece lined bibs. Oh how I would thank myself later for that decision. And as much as I detest rain capes, I rode the entire route with its flappiness next to my ears.

 In the spirit of the previous Sourland Semi-Classic rollouts, we departed Sourland Cycles’ parking lot and made a left out of town. Most of us were getting the first drops on us after hanging out in the shop until forced out. Others had conspicuous splatters of mud as they had walked around the shop. Several riders had shunned driving to the start. Two riders in particular left their house near Philadelphia to ride the fifty-plus miles to the start. They would complete the course and ride home after a slight warmup in the bike shop. I’m sure they would be unsympathetic to my inability to remember my Garmin’s basic start function, ultimately pulling the head unit off the bike and stowing it my jersey. Perhaps the weather was already making me loopy.

 Pulling over in the first miles of the ride meant I had to ride hard to catch my group. I had met up with Josh – one of the Whiteface challengers – as well as Topher, a manager at Bikesport Bikes in Trappe. It was the first Sourland for both of them. When I caught them I found them pushing an enjoyable pace. I was having bursts of energy but struggling to stay on the front. Considering none of us downloaded the course (it never transferred onto my Garmin is my excuse) we had to continuously wait for riders a bit more prepared though I found myself playing the fun game of riding by memory. About half the time I was correct, which means we would have gotten extremely lost.

 There’s a recurring moment in a cyclist’s experiences where it is thought, “What if I go right here?” The Sourland Semi-Classic answers that question numerous times. For the Hell of Hunterdon, riders hammer down the gravel sector of Rocktown Road, a huge favorite. Once the sector returns to pavement, the route makes a left turn uphill. But what if we continued straight? The Sourland route does just that and New Jersey continues to impress.

 One further aspect that stands out in the Belgian spring classic races is the notoriously narrow road. You know the ones: they’re where you think, “How does a race down this road plus team cars, officials, and motorcycles? The Sourland route has numerous moments of skinny farm roads, painted brown this time by manure, and oftentimes bordered by a swollen creek. A strong dosage of wind added to the belief we had swapped weather patterns since Belgium was enduring near freezing weather. We hoped each turn would give us a reprieve from the headwind but alas, each turn bewildered us more by exhaling harder into our front side. How could this be?

 Ride the route long enough and it becomes apparent there are a lot of bridges to cross. At one point there is even a road called Three Bridges Road with – imagine that – three bridges in rapid succession. A new part of the course sending riders through Neshanic Station to prepare for the Zion Hill climb from another direction sent us over a beautiful steel bridge with a pedestrian deck that was too irresistible to neglect. Perhaps we should ride the course over and count all of the bridges. If you’re into steel trestle bridges, this is certainly your gig. The Sourland region features quite a few.

 The Sourland Semi-Classic featured four gravel sectors this year. Each sector proved to be quite the effort. Those with disc brakes maintained heavy inspection of the rotors as debris built up. It sounded like derailleurs out of their limit pinging off of spokes. Any downhill stop sign sounded like harmonicas with disc users. But the strong trait about each gravel sector was the saturation turning into absorption. It felt as though we were rolling over ground up tires on a playground. Here we thought the unpaved sectors would be rock hard, but how wrong we were. Each push of the pedal was labored and zapping. Cold muscles were protesting this new obstacle.

 I write this thirty-six hours after the fact, and that is my main point. Approximately half of the registrants presented for the start of the first Kermesse Sport Spring Classic series on account of the miserable conditions. With the elapsed time since rolling the first mile the feeling is as fresh as if I were back on course. I received a text from home stating, “I would have quit.” A woman crossing the street to check her mail remarked, “You must be soaked.” I asked Mike if given the opportunity, would he have showed up at the start, “I can’t answer that.” “Aren’t you guys cold?” Gawking motorists. Pedestrian’s face agape. Is that a cyclist? Is that more than one? What the hell would possess someone to be on a bike ride today?

It is deep into winter and people are desperate to get out-of-doors. Late December into early January saw intense cold that made riding outside a flirtation with insanity. I coped with the Arctic temperatures by regularly refreshing my weather app to see if anything changed in the last fifteen minutes. It had not. With the opportunities being as they may I had to decide to either ride indoors or to endlessly layer up and have a go outside. Having the right equipment is what makes the latter option a possibility.

 I have tried in vain to like shoe covers. I got some as a gift several years ago. It took several more years to realize they were two different sizes. It took a third of that time to put proper tears in them in any number of places. I struggled to clip out at exactly two stopping points, one a major intersection with every direction stopped. I laughed at capsizing because what else was there to do? At no point during those rides did I ever think how glad I was to have shoe covers on. For me it’s either Belgian booties and winter tech socks or just plain winter tech socks and raw shoes. That last option is always a hope-for-the-best scenario. Often when I opt to look pro without shoe accessories I can be observed waddling around my house post-ride convinced my feet are frozen solid.

 A company has to know what an off-season cyclist is looking for in a sock to turn that cold forecast into a ride possibility. Some dedicated riders have winter cycling boots that do the trick. Others have just a single pair of cycling shoes that are designed to handle the heat of the summer and not one iota of consideration about the potential cold of winter. Those breezy vents that feel so great in August are the weak point in February. A good designer anticipates this and creates a sock to overcome the discrepancy.

 This is the first year for Belgian Boys Club to offer winter riding socks in the form of Winter High Top Socks. The company has offered numerous off-season accessories, notably the Antwerpen long sleeve jersey and the ever-elusive winter riding cap, among others. It is no surprise items designed for Belgian weather cross over well into the cold and humid winters in the northeast United States. But what’s so big about a tech winter sock?

 For starters the socks are designed with wind resistant panels down the front of the shin. The toes also have wind resistant panels, an area typically at risk of cold breezes due to summer venting. The foot beds of the sock are also insulated for those under-the-sole vents that could put a hardy rider at risk for frostbite. In typical Belgian Boys Club style, the socks feature a reflective stripe around the top for those low light conditions in the morning or at sunset for extra visibility. The Lion of Flanders is also reflective though it would only be visible, as one gets ready prior to sunrise and a flashlight.

 But did these socks hold up to the cold outing several weeks ago? As a matter of fact they did. During a ride with temperatures hovering in the low twenties, the Belgian Boys Club Winter High Top Socks combined with Belgian booties performed admirably in humid and windy conditions. These tech socks were extremely comfortable and even the cuffs sealed off any windy conditions.

I told Mike I couldn’t remember the last time I had ridden these roads. They were roads I once used nearly daily about a decade ago. Portions of road covered were part of an old favorite 50-mile route I would do regularly. Unbeknownst to me that route would bring me within a mile of my current house. I had often wondered what lay beyond that intersection if I turned left instead of right. As it turns out, I would have potentially caught a glimpse of my future residence. All of this over the starting and stopping point of a ten-year span.

 As we bounced along one of the quiet farm roads just outside of Doylestown, PA, I took a minute to think of how much I changed as a cyclist in those ten years. Ten years ago I would not have been riding with Mike, as I had not met him yet. Ten years ago I was  a naive cyclist unsure as to which direction to take the hobby.

 Interestingly enough Mike made a comment about a piece of his kit that is still in regular rotation. I commented my pair of Oakley Radars is the last piece of cycling gear that was in use ten years ago. His selection was a pair of leg warmers present from that time.

 Ten years ago I clicked through the gears on the same road solo. I had an aluminum frame and Mavic wheels. Now I had a carbon frame and HED wheels. In those days I had Diadora cycling shoes with nylon soles. Now I lace up carbon-soled Bonts. Helmets and kits have rotated through. I once had a Cateye computer. Today I was randomly pressing buttons on a brand-new Garmin. And I was riding with our ride hero, Mike. I added one person to the story in those ten years. I had also put hundreds of racing miles behind me in that span.

 The week before we forced a ride in sub-freezing weather. Nearly a week later and we were winding our way around these familiar roads. I went first and stated I had lost someone in my family around the same time we had gone out for a ride. He echoed the sentiments and stated, coincidentally, he did too. For a brief moment I found myself letting my guard down and talking about the loss of a family member. Mike talked, too, though I cannot speak for his level of guardedness.

 As we were about to enter into the final portion of the ride, I received an urgent text message that sent me into a brief fog. I needed to be home but was dozens of miles away by bike. I’m an anxious person in these situations. Mike suggested we ride to his house where he would give me a lift to mine. There was one way back to his house, yet it involved riding on a road cyclists should avoid.

 I found myself sorting out my thoughts while riding as hard as I could. I concluded this approach was neutralizing raw nerves and eventually had to let Mike pull me the final mile or so to his house. We quickly got in his car and got to my house. I got in my car and went to the urgent situation. For a brief moment in time I thought how tired my legs had felt, which was the distraction I needed to think clearly after that. As the day deteriorated I found myself anxious but also still feeling the bike ride. In short, I was too tired to pace and be anxious.

Let’s say you’re packing the bags for a long cycling trip and you’re contemplating what sort of shaving essentials to pack. As a cyclist this ranks a bit higher than most of the standard population. For the male cyclist, keeping the pins shaved is key to looking the part. The optional close shave on the face is also a consideration. The shave soap is selected, the scuttle is packed, but what to bring that is simple to use, doesn’t break the bank, and has a small footprint? Look no further than the Dreadnought Shavette.

 We have discussed the benefits of wet shaving on creakybottombracket.com. Wet shaving is technically any form of shaving, but when used in context it boils down to old-style shaving. That means scraping body hair off with any variation of single blades. We have discussed double-edged safety razors, classical straight razors, but now we focus on the in between. The shavette has the simplicity of a safety razor with the look and feel of a straight razor. At an affordable $20 (USD), let’s take a look at the benefits of a shavette for the cyclist.

 Replacement cartridges for contemporary razors can set one back anywhere between fifteen and thirty dollars depending on how many come in the kit. For the same price, a cyclist looking to maintain the body hair can purchase a Dreadnought Shavette along with a supply of razor blades for the same amount. Further benefits can be found in the fact that the razor blades must be snapped in half, providing the user double the amount of blades. The question becomes, why aren’t you stocking the Dreadnought Shavette?

 Double-edged safety razors can become clogged with hair depending on how cold the weather has been prior to shaving. Straight razors can be intimidating and can require a bit of maintenance in the form of accessories such as strops and sharpening stones. The shavette takes the best of both worlds and provides a clean shave with the ability to discard the blade after every couple shaves. It’s a constantly sharp blade that is sanitary and convenient.

 To start with, Dreadnought razor blades come in a wax paper envelope making it convenient and safe to snap the blades in half. Once the blade is snapped, reach for the shavette. Lift the swing arm at the top of the blade to open the blade holder portion. The next action is to split the holder and slide both parts in opposite directions to access the two spokes in the middle of the holder. These spokes coincide with the holes on the razor blade. Snap the blade in, slide the blade holder together, and lock the swing arm down. The shavette is ready for use.

 The shavette is similar to a French straight razor, a small blade meant for beard maintenance that is light and easily maneuverable. French straight razors are typically light in weight, which could be a bit of a concern for those with thicker facial hair. Those with coarse hair may have to use a fresh blade every time. So it goes.

 There are only a handful of detractions that come with the Dreadnought shavette. Go ahead and open the swing arm with the expectancy of pinching your thumb. The smaller-than-typical blade means more passes are necessary to scrape off facial hair and pre-race leg readiness. The final detractor is the blade’s effectiveness. Having a new blade at the ready means it shaves really close, almost too close. It could create slight discomfort some people when they put their cheek down on the pillow or go for a swim.

About a month ago the family loaded up the car and headed to Lancaster County, specifically Strasburg, Pennsylvania, to gaze upon machines of uncommon strength and size. When one visits this town, it is usually to review locomotives of various sizes and realities. I knew the route to this town as the way to Smoketown Airport, home of a criterium of remarkable nerves. When we geared up to leave Strasburg’s train collection, it was some forty degrees and heavy rain. Belgian weather. Wouldn’t you know as I pen this a month later, it is forty degrees and heavy rain.

 It has been a while since I put up a coffee offering that is so remarkable it should be sought after. A suggested location to have lunch was a gathering place called The Speckled Hen just around the corner, also in Strasburg. Whether you there with two wheels or four, this place does coffee right. It also does food right, so bring your appetite.

 The Speckled Hen is a coffee shop/ light restaurant that is smartly dressed in décor that makes one want to enter for coffee, stay for food, and remain for conversation. The initial intention was just coffee. Lunch took over and the day passed by at a relaxing pace. The family ordered items such as grilled cheese and soup. The grilled cheese showcased feta cheese while the soups ranged from the complementary tomato as well as the seasonal butternut squash bisque.

 Wanting to take advantage of their coffee pride I ordered a pour over of their Homacho Waeno. The description brought it as close to my favorite roast of my favorite company. The claim of watermelon intrigued me even more. I glossed over bergamot mostly because I had yet to look it up. I am also hardly a tea drinker.

 What came out was a wooden board featuring a mini-coffee carafe, a small spoon, an empty glass tumbler, and a full tumbler of mineral water. This was above and beyond coffee preparation. Not wanting to look like a chump I discretely searched the interwebs for the procedure of such presentation and came away learning the purpose of the mineral water was palette cleansing. Without skipping a beat I took food bites and followed it up with the occasional shot of mineral water. I then sampled the coffee and felt the cold effects of the day warmed by the hot coffee. Oh to sit her for all eternity.

 The coffee was so flavorful I bought some to bring home. Here is where the review part comes in and the Stops We Love category is vacated. The coffee was quite subtle yet left a deep mineral flavor to it. I have asked around what it means when brown flecks are left atop the freshly ground coffee, but I have yet to find out what it means. Strangely enough, each coffee that has left the bean husks behind share the same flavor profile of remarkable mineral aftertaste. At first I thought it was a water purification system that created it in house, but how it is possible it transfers into the home coffee making? Homacho Waeno roast certainly came through with that substantial roast taste.

 Several issues ago peloton magazine featured an East Coast editorial about a rider who passed through Lancaster County. His route would have sent him pretty close to The Speckled Hen’s porch to get coffee. On the rainy day we passed through town the only non-motorized transportation were the gaggle of horse drawn Amish carriages carrying on with business. For the hardy rider it would probably be a rough ride dodging road apples, even with fenders affixed to the rig.

According to the interwebs the idiom ‘preaching to the choir’ or more aptly ‘preaching to the converted’ can be traced back to the mid-1800s. In a svelte round of research the phrase was first used in 1867 by John Stuart Mill in a book as, “Dr McCosh is preaching not only to a person already converted, but to an actual missionary of the same doctrine.” It is a phrase that means one is educating the already informed. Or to be more precise, stoking the bases.

 I can’t imagine I would come off as an unbiased reporter for a book about how cycling can save the world. Try as I might, I was already of the education that cycling can save the world. But among the 241 pages or the more than 300 citations of Peter Walker’s How Cycling Can Save the World I found so much more than what I was seeking. This book is not about expensive cycling rigs or lists of races in downtown exposures. It’s about how progressive cities have recognized the functionality of bicycles and have moved forward with prioritizing them in the infrastructure.

 On display are two countries in particular that have recognized the two- wheeled mode of transportation as a problem solver. Denmark and Holland have spent the last several decades removing the short trips done by cars in other countries by replacing them with pedal power. The effect is incredible. Downtown traffic is a lot less congested and people are involved in their community. This doesn’t mean people don’t own cars in both European countries. It simply means the car remains parked for any short trips (which is the trip of preference for city dwellers). With stowed cars came a strange side effect: instead of buying less at grocery stores, they actually bought more. The once-a-week trip was replaced with daily trips. Perhaps that was possible because of the money saved by keeping the car in the car park.

 It should go without saying that cycling is deeply therapeutic. Having residents of the United States in particular could make a major dent in the health care concerns of sedentary people. According to businessinsider.com, the average American walks well below the recommended daily distance by half. Americans only walk an average of about 2.5 miles per day. But instead of being proactive about health issues brought on by sedentary lifestyles, many choose to opt medical routes instead of obvious avenues such as cycling. Cycling is also healthy for the brain as it stimulates it through exercise. Riding a bike to work can have a person energized and more productive than the car driven commuter.

 Even I thought I was conscious of my local trips until I visited Holland at the turn of the century. When I came back I realized just how wasteful my car trips had been. Driving to the convenience store was my own study in being pathetic. I tried to use the car less but found the lack of bike infrastructure an impediment. Or perhaps that was my excuse. For a couple of years I was rightfully called out for driving to my teaching job a scant three miles down the road. Strangely I wanted to get home quickly to ride my bike as long as possible during the season. Why not just ride to and from work?

 How Cycling Can Save the World is heavy with facts and studies involving the benefit of incorporating proper bike lanes to promote going by bike. It also discusses the risqué topic of why cyclists are hated by motorists. Aside from the gear head pack mentality, it is a strange belief that cyclists ‘have it coming to them.’ Walker refreshingly points out something I’ve always wondered about: why do everyday humans get a ‘pass’ at threatening cyclists either through words, gestures, or social media posts? He calls out the odd double standard that should a threat toward a cyclists has the pronoun swapped out to threaten another social group, that person may actually face consequences. People threatening cyclists? Totally ok. He even talks about how cycling traffic fatalities rarely ever have a sentence to fit the loss of life.

 To show Walker is without concern to stir up conversation, he devotes an entire chapter to the concept that cycling helmets are unnecessary. With a claim as bold as this, one would expect him to back it up with evidence. Much to the satisfaction of his research he does and does it convincingly. Peter Walker is like that for the entire book. He grabs our attention with a shot across the bow but then justifies it with over one citation per page. I dare anyone to poke holes in his thesis.

 The problem is that this book is in the wrong hands. As a cyclist I am aware cycling is certainly the answer. Sometimes progressive mayors of cities recognize an opportunity such as London mayor Boris Johnson and set the cause back like Toronto mayor Rob Ford. He took it upon himself to dig up bike lanes and proclaim the road is for trucks and buses. These are the exact people who should have this book in their hands. It is proclaimed that the car is an outdated option; the 21st century will progress to ways to relieve congestion by pushing the car farther and farther to the recesses of developed areas.

I had two chances in my hockey career to play a game outside. Well, I had two chances to potentially experience a hockey game outside. The first possible time was a scheduled back-up role at the nearby prep school. Despite not being scheduled to play I still wanted to experience a game without a roof. Wouldn’t you know I came down with an illness the day before and couldn’t dress? The second time was never really a chance. Tupper Lake had covered their rink months prior, though I did play that game.

 It’s a pretty safe assumption to regard an outdoor game as something I will never get to experience. Sure there are pond hockey tournaments but they have no goalie. Up until recently I was a sportist without a calling. That is, until cycling came along I struggled to find ways to get outside even in the most inclement weather.

 At least that’s how I perceived my choice as I waited all morning for the weather. The forecast stated I would wake up to snow. There was none to speak of when the alarm went off. I checked the forecast for the day and warnings kept popping up saying to expect snow in ten minutes, then five, then ‘Snow will continue for 120 minutes.’ As I sipped my coffee at the window there was not one single flake to be seen.

 It may sound strange but I was waiting for the snow. I love the winter weather and all the trappings brought along with it. I love how the outside world gets quiet. The roads clear out of motorists. The only animals usually seen are cardinals robbing nests. Even the slow moving creeks quiet themselves. I love the wood burning smells of fireplaces cranked up in anticipation of a day of coffee and books. This is why I urged the skies to give up the resistance and let it happen.

 As I dressed I caught a glimpse of a flake. Here it comes! I was nearly finished dressing when more flakes appeared. At first I thought it was going to be a bust of a snowfall. Out the door and down the community I thought to do a short route and come home. It wasn’t falling remarkably for what was forecasted. I enjoyed the scant amount of flakes bouncing off of my model-like high cheekbones.

The route became more and more of a winter scene. The snow went from a sprinkling to a proper falling rate as the ride progressed. Few cars passed initially. My tires had yet to gain a coating of moisture. “I’ll just turn around after a few miles,” I thought.

 There was something that pulled me farther out. The snow got heavier and the roads began holding on to the precipitation. Bridges along the route became easy to identify because of their rectangles of snow unnaturally present on the pavement. I realized for a moment that I was perfectly dressed. “I’ll skip this turn and go out just a bit farther,” I thought.

 I crossed the steel grated bridge with slight nervousness. My perceptions came about that the back tire was skidding out from under me on the steel but really nothing happened. The silence of the snowstorm intensified. All I could hear was the hiss of my tires as they finally became wet. I turned along one of the old standby roads and laughed at the fact that every turn seemed to deal a headwind. The snow bounced off over part of me. The flakes died a smothering death on the drippy road. I fell in love with the sugary appearance my tires took on any time I rode through those snowy bridge accumulations.

 I was not the only one out enjoying this seasonal treat. I saw at least one person walking her dog. There were at least two groups of walkers bundled for the weather. I passed a house that had one of the biggest backyard bonfires I have ever seen. I wanted to stop and warm my hands by it but I wasn’t sure of the reception I would receive. I took in lungfuls of wood fire smells.

 As I made my return the traffic picked up. I imagined these were the grocery store raiders returning from throwing elbows in the bread and milk aisle. I imagined they were proud of scoring two loaves of smooshed bread as well as a bent carton of eggs, some of which were cracked in the melee. I also imagined the bewilderment of the motorists trying to figure out why a cyclist was out in the snow.

I recall an American car commercial involving a tunnel and a white offering of the company’s sedan. The car backed up into the tunnel and the overlay sound was the familiar clicking of a gun being cocked. We can guess what happens next as the gun goes off and the car is fired from the tunnel to the tune of a seventies rock band. I long for days when riding I feel as though shot from a cannon.

 There are few relationships that go together perfectly, though some are obvious. Chocolate and milk immediately comes to mind. Peanut butter and jelly comes to mind as well. Cheddar cheese and hard pretzels, Liege waffles and authentic maple syrup. The summer solstice and long days in the saddle, too, can get added to the list. But coffee and bike shops are hard to beat as a winning combination.

 Smartly two wonderful Bucks County companies have come together for the holiday season to produce coffee beans for the dark winter days. Winter is a season for darkness. Beers are big and dark during winter. Coffee beans follow suit with darkness to help carry us through dark morning commutes and equally dark returns. Homestead Coffee’s Grit Grind dark roast is as dark as they come from the amazing roasters out of Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania. It is brewed in a collaboration with Doylestown Bike Works.

 The grit inspiration recalls the effects from winter rides. It’s those rides where road grit is kicked up by passing motorists from melting snow or standing water. It’s what wiggles its way through seams and loosely woven clothing. It attaches itself to chain links and gunks up the drivetrain. Hardly a hardy cyclist is shocked by the micro crunch produced from the little bits of roadway thrown up during a group ride and resting in the recesses of the mouth until the ride stops, usually at a coffee shop for a warm up.

Grit inspiration can also be found on the unpaved roads of Bucks County. Many of them have already said farewell to the steady exposure of sunlight. Seek out dirt roads in Bucks County and be expected to see frozen sections and frozen runoff. Expect the front wheel to provide a healthy dosage of rocky spray to turn black shoe covers to brown. It all pays off when one recounts not a single car was seen or heard during the experience.

 Typically in the winter the lights have gone out in the legs while passing lights coming on in the houses passed by. There is intense scrutiny in the off-season. A sprint for the town sign could reveal a lack of conditioning and fret when there is no response offered. There needs to be a sort of stick of dynamite to liven up the cold legs.

It’s that time of year where people in the northern hemisphere slow down and enjoy the rapid succession of work holidays. It is the darkest time of year and for some the sun barely makes a daily visit. Luckily here the sun never calls it a day prior to 4:30pm to completely write off any chance of a longer ride. For road cyclists, the week between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve are of unofficial importance. It’s the week of the Rapha Festive 500.

 This year marks the seventh year of the unofficial event where riders attempt to ride 500 kilometers outdoors for a ridiculous patch and bragging rights. Yours truly has completed it once in 2015; quite literally calling it quits the moment the 500-kilometer distance was accomplished. Sometimes people continue beyond the distance. Some crash through the 500-kilometer distance without trying to double the distance or more. One immediately wonders if those participants have any friends or family at all with devotion such as that.

 In 2015 I explored the old haunts of Tory spies who lived in the area. It was my attempt to win the Moots bike by creating a journal with a historical back story. Despite doing work for the losing team, they are a bit of pride in our hamlet. The ringleader’s lifeless body was dumped not far from this keyboard. The body was flung down from atop a rider’s horse at the feet of his parents. It was proclaimed to the Doan parents that he would never bother the countryside again, or something like that. Once I crossed the distance marker, I stopped bothering the countryside with my zipping chain sound and echoing tires.

 With mounting responsibilities, I planned to fail in 2016. I knew unless something drastic was to happen, I would hardly get close to completing the Festive 500. I had the hunch so far in advance, I decided to look to the greatest land swindle of all time, the Walking Purchase for inspiration. Three men attempted to run as fast as they could for a day and a half. The first runner dropped out not far from this keyboard and his exertion maimed him for life. The second runner dropped dead while crossing a river on the second day. The ‘winner’ was never awarded his winner’s fee. He had crossed the Native Americans so badly they made him pay twice, murdering his family once to return years later to murder his new family. Naturally I saw myself as the early exit contestant.

 That leads us to this year’s edition of the Festive 500. There’s the slow and steady approach that sees riders needing to complete roughly 65 kilometers per day (nearly 40 miles) during the eight-day affair. That sounds doable I’m sure until one factors in at least one day of bad weather. Also, factor in the small unlikeliness of riding on December 25 to those who celebrate that day. If this applies to the participant, it becomes a bit of a stress fest. With those two days struck from the riding log, the daily total skyrockets to nearly 85 kilometers (just over fifty miles).

 Luckily for me I have come up with just the exhibition for 2017. There are numerous residents who own ancient farmhouses in the Bucks County countryside. Among them are residents who claim a certain George Washington had slept there. Make a claim such as that and immediately you draw the attention of realtors who really want to find out if the nation’s first president really did rest his head in their house. Most of the time though, it’s false. There are at least four verified houses in Bucks County Mr. Washington set up headquarters. All of them are south of the creakybottombracket.com offices, yet the distance to access each house, photograph it, and return could put me in the neighborhood of the necessary distance. How tantalizingly plausible to pursue this. Should the Bucks County totals need some help; there is at least once house just outside of Lambertville in New Jersey that is also a George Washington house. There’s a sign out front. It must be true.

 This area likes to celebrate the nation’s first president so much, re-enactors load up Durham boats on Christmas morning near the location Mr. Washington put in the Delaware River at night on Christmas Eve 1776. People come from miles to watch the re-enactors row across the river and step out on the Jersey side. When the weather does not cooperate, the re-enactors use the steel bridge recently constructed as a means to overcome the flowing water. Imagine the anticlimax.