Three riders, The Fat Cat, Legs and Big Daddy met at Birman's nest because no one could decide on a route. It seems a case of the wishy washies was going around. Big Daddy complained of being "cooked," possibly from the heat. Legs slouched, shirtless, in a chair claiming to have forgotten his shoes. The Cat admitted to his own misgivings about riding, recounting how he yawned deeply in his car and the hot air burned his lungs. Eventually, it was decided that the only thing that could get the Grimpeurs out was a "recovery ride."
The Cat chased the Bird down the bike path along the Mon river towards Bakers Ridge and a rendezvous with Legs. Legs rode via mini van to his estate where his shoes were alleged to be. Talk was, it was just an excuse to cut a few miles off the ride. The only real, sustained hill of the day was the climb up Van Vooris from the bike path to the ridge. Of course, that damn Birdman flew up it--oh, well.
After some more procrastinating in the cul-du-sac, the group headed across Bakers ridge, up 119 to Stewartstown and into fabulous Point Marion via the back door. We spent quite a bit of time searching the up and down side streets of the Point for a pool that Legs assured his comrades was close at hand and cleared for use. Man, it was hot. He kept insisting that the elusive pool must be on the next street, which happened to be up. The search ended at the top of a wall that was so steep the Cat was complaining about his wrists giving out, of all things. Thank God there was no more up and no more road.
The search was given up and the Grimpeurs, or should I say roleurs, crossed the river and continued to try and avoid exertion. A certain member of the expedition vetoed Dilliner HILL road in favor of a shady trip along crooked run. The fact that part of the road was constructed of golf ball sized gravel was outweighed by the cloying heat and the desperate avoidance of undue exertion.The Guard at the power plant shooed Legs away from his well paved way so the roleurs picked through the rocks over to Fort Martin road and some dump truck dodging. At the bottom of Fort Martin hill Legs and The Fat Cat had to wait for Birdman, as usual. He was drafting one of those boxy little gangsta Toyota things and cut a sidewall on a lonely little stone in the middle of the road.
Big Daddy and the Cat eventually made it back to the nest and the sweat just started pouring out faster than they could replace it, cool. Legs had to pay for his earlier commute with a climb up Van Vooris at the end of his ride. He might still be at the bottom. Anyone heard from him?