It looks like a highway is going in on the upstream side of the Manchester wall. A 20' wide swath has been turned to mulch, presumably for the connector trail up to the belle island bridge.
Damon initiated this thing. Jeff and I have very nice wives that watched the babies. Paul was too 'sick' to ride. Outside Damon's apartment we wrapped our toes in neoprene and complained about 'ice-crotch.' There's a market out there for a windproof cycling cod-piece. Heading east in the shadow of the flood-wall was a slow awakening for stiff legs recently subjected to a half-assed, early-morning, New Year's Resolution-style squat and lunge regimen.
The Slave-Trail connection to Ancarrow's Landing is a nice carve session now. I feel guilty having so much fun on a trail commemorating so much really un-fun stuff.
A few other cyclists enjoyed the Poop-coaster with us. The berms just rail so hard.
Happy as shit we determined Forest Hill was next. Barely made it past Canoe Run park. A bomb went off inside my rear derailleur. Chain jammed tight between cogs and spokes. Shattered cage, bent hanger. While I disassembled, bloodied knuckles, shortened chain and reassembled, Jeff and Damon turned trail-detective. A derailleur-height gash on a rock revealed there was no bomb, just an unfortunate lean of the bike.
A make-shift single-speed roll back to Damon's included revelations about the retarding effect of political correctness on expressiveness, and the need for a new rear wheel. Today's 9.8 miles got expensive.
Evidence:
A trip to Coqui is in order. Need gears. Need a wheel with less hop. Need a straight hanger.
Stay safe out there.
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