We met on the Jersey side of the bridge this morning, got some instructions from Zoltan in his Hungarian accented English, and headed up Hudson Terrace. I was at the front with Zoltan when a truck passed us spewing a thick, grey, pungent cloud that doubtless shortened our lives. He said, in his old-country brogue: “Smells like communism, dude.”
Windy again today, but never quite a tailwind. Colder, too. Not so bad, but I did sort of envy this getup as we went past:
Mmmmmmm, fur.
Up the Rocket Ride route we went, and then up Little Tor, as if to confirm for everyone that my legs are cooked.
Virtually all Zoltan rides end at the Hungarian Coffee Shop, back on the island. After getting spat out the back when the hammer went down on 9W (my legs are cooked), it was all I could do to catch what was left of the group- and get a little shelter from the wind now screaming up the Hudson- going down Riverside Drive. I was out of gas, and cash, too, but I knew we were headed for this, and I wanted IN:
Smells like strudel, dude. You betcha.