Photo by Marc Steiner/Agency New Jersey.
It was somewhere in Avalon on the second day of a two-day Jersey Shore bike tour that our support team passed by in their cars, windows up, AC humming. The cars would arrive at our ultimate destination—Cape May—in less than 20 minutes. My fellow riders and I were facing another two hours of pedaling through the relentless headwinds and thick air of this humid July day. Can somebody tell me again: Why am I doing this?
Thinking back, I’m not certain where I got the notion of bicycling the Jersey Shore. Maybe it was two summers ago, when I took a short, exhilarating spin from Bay Head to Lavalette. Whatever the seed, in the spring of 2010 the idea began to take root.
I had been working out all winter and knocked off 26 pounds. I figured it was now or never for my Shore ride. In late April, I went to my neighborhood bike shop in Montclair and purchased a road bike—that is, one with a lighter frame and narrower tires than the hybrid bike I had been riding for years. Ten weeks later, I was on my way.
The ride would take two days, cover 135 miles and most of the Shore, from Sea Bright to Cape May, with one gap traveled in the support cars. I had three fellow riders, strangers to me at first, but now very much a part of the story. We sweated together, persevered over narrow bridges together, fought wind and sun, shared in the laughter and exhilaration and ultimately triumphed over distance, the elements and the occasional discourteous driver.
I purchased my new wheels at the Montclair Bikery, where I shared the idea of a Shore ride with store owner Gerry Magrini. His words of wisdom: “Find people to ride with who know what they’re doing.”
I had not even begun to think of whom I might ride with—or the experience needed for such an endeavor.
Days later, I happened to bring up the idea of the ride during dinner at Boulevard Five72, a highly regarded restaurant in Kenilworth. The thought was shared with Scott Snyder, the restaurant’s co-owner/executive chef and an inveterate bike racer. Scott is a man of few words. Told about my possible undertaking, he said simply, “I’d do that.”
In the ensuing weeks, Scott and I exchanged e-mails and picked an early July weekend for the trip. As I learned about Scott’s abilities—he rides daily and races most weekends—I became convinced that I was getting in over my head. But Scott assured me the two other riders he would bring along would not be pros. More important, he was handling all the logistics, including drivers to carry our extra gear and pick us up in Cape May.
I trained throughout June with a series of long rides: 28 miles through the Oranges, Verona and Cedar Grove; 44 miles in hilly Somerset County; 34 miles on the Delaware and Raritan Canal; 28 miles through Clifton and Paterson. All this built up my endurance—and my confidence.
The morning of Day One—a Sunday—we met in Kenilworth, loaded the four bikes onto a single car and drove to Red Bank, where we could leave the car with a friend. Finally, at 8:10 am, we were on our way, heading east through Rumson. We reached the Shore at Sea Bright and pointed the bikes south on Route 36. Our destination for the day would be Long Beach Island. Estimated distance: 60 miles. The actual distance would prove far greater.
It was a sunny day with temperatures forecast in the mid-90s, so we hoped to cover as much ground as possible in the cool of the morning. The early miles clicked away quickly. On Ocean Avenue in Long Branch, we saw our first surfers of the day. In Pier Village, we picked our way through a crowd of triathletes, then continued south on a pleasant stretch close to the beach with no cars at all. That didn’t last long, and soon we were on busy Ocean Avenue near the Windmill, the iconic Long Branch hot dog hut.
We crossed Lake Takanassee and entered the Elberon section of Long Branch, passed the Seven Presidents Church (boarded up and awaiting restoration), sped by the mansions of Deal, around Deal Lake and, following the bicycle route signs, zipped into Asbury Park. Turning left on Fifth Avenue, we passed Tillie the Clown staring down from the Wonder Bar, rode onto the boardwalk, caught a glimpse of the Stone Pony and breezed toward the carousel. There’s no end to the icons in this neck of the Shore.
It was just past 10 am when we reached Ocean Grove, a town so quaint you can’t resist slowing down to gaze inland toward its summertime tent colony and tidy little Victorians. We followed Pilgrim Pathway inland and crossed the wooden bridge over Fletcher Lake. Then it was straight down Ocean Avenue through Bradley Beach (cautiously passing the angle-parked cars) and into Avon-by-the-Sea.
By this point, we had established a good rhythm and a modest average speed of 11 miles per hour (according to the digital odometer on my bike). After a slightly wobbly start, we were chugging along in train-like synchronicity. At times we rode in single file; when the shoulders were wide enough, we pedaled two abreast, chatting away. Thanks to those fleeting conversations, I was starting to learn about my companions.
Scott was the leader of our pack, picking his way through the beach traffic and setting our relaxed pace. An Ohio native, Scott, 43, is CIA-educated and had cooked in several respected Manhattan restaurants before opening Boulevard in 2008.
Mary Kate O’Donnell and Erin Herits have been friends since childhood in Cranford. Mary Kate, 28, single and living in Hoboken, is marketing director of Boulevard Five72. She had just started gravitating toward bicycling that spring. “This is my fifth time on a bike,” she told me—although that seemed a bit implausible.
Erin, also 28 and living in Montclair, is the more athletically ambitious of the two women. She was using the Shore ride to train for a triathlon in Belmar. A speech-language pathologist for the Hillside board of education, she works occasionally in various roles at the restaurant.
We were starting to think about an early lunch, but the Monmouth County beaches were too crowded for a quick bite on this Sunday morning. We left Avon for Belmar, then passed through the brick arches into less-congested Spring Lake. We were about 25 miles into the ride and it was getting hot, the sun high in the sky, the breeze nonexistent. On we rode over Wreck Pond to Sea Girt and Manasquan, where we picked up the Capital to the Coast Trail. Finally, at the Manasquan River, we found a convenient lunch spot, the Riverside Café, where we caught some rest at an outdoor table with a view across the river toward Point Pleasant. Dining al fresco, it seemed for a moment that we were on vacation. But then it was saddle up and back to work.
Hitting the road again, the river forced us inland. We followed it past Fisherman’s Cove to Brielle Road. The coastal evacuation signs guided us toward Union Avenue, a busy thoroughfare with a nice, wide bike lane. That had become a fixation; we judged towns by the width and surface quality of their bike lanes or shoulders. The lanes vary from town to town—a reminder that the Shore is an ever-changing negotiation between nature and humans.
After navigating our way to a busy stretch of 35 South in Brielle, we plunged ahead onto the drawbridge over the Manasquan River and slipped past the traffic on the downside toward Point Pleasant. Here, the route got tricky. We had to cross three lanes of traffic in order to loop back toward the beach. There was something formidable about the four of us moving together in tight formation. Cars yielded; seas might have parted.
Finally, we sprung loose from the inland traffic, made a beeline down Broadway and turned south again on Ocean Avenue, a crowded thoroughfare, dense with people, cars and houses. But at least we were back along the beach.
At 36 miles, I began to feel the tightness in my thighs. I was already at the upper end of my training distance and we had covered only a little more than half of the day’s expected ground. Was I ready for this? At least I was confident in my bike. I had chosen my Specialized Sequoia for comfort; now that decision was paying off. The handlebars on the Sequoia are turned up a little more than most road bikes. That allowed me to maintain a fairly upright posture, sparing my back from stress.
What my bike doesn’t have is a pedal system that requires click-in shoes. I opted for plastic stirrups, into which I can easily slip my regular running shoes. Most distance riders would scoff at this choice. Back in Montclair, Gerry Magrini advised me that clicking in would increase the productivity of my pedaling by 20 percent.
But it’s not clicking in that concerns me; it’s clicking out. You have to anticipate every sudden stop in order to click out and prevent a fall. Sure enough, during two days of clicking in, Mary Kate and Erin each had several scary tumbles—although the only signs of damage were the greasy chain tattoos on their calves. I, with my uncool plastic cages, never fell once.
Traversing the busy intersection of routes 35 and 88 south of Point Pleasant, we reached Bay Head. Now I was on familiar turf. We made the first left onto Osbourne, which curves right into East Avenue, a quiet little street that runs right along the beach, paralleling 35 South. It’s a relaxing two-mile stretch, flanked by tasteful homes and used mainly by bikers, runners and pedestrians. At the end of East Avenue, we turned right, crossed 35 South, then took the side roads south on the bay side.
In Mantoloking, the side roads ended, and we were back on 35 South. It was busy at this point and the shoulder wide but poorly maintained. In Brick the shoulder got wider but no smoother. Finally, at Ortley Beach the traffic thinned out and the shoulders stayed wide—always a nice combination.
It was time to turn inland again toward Toms River on 37 West. (Had we travelled straight, the ride would have dead-ended at Island Beach State Park.) Then, suddenly, panic. Looking down, I realized that my thighs had turned a bright crimson. Starting as early as we did, I had not thought to apply sunscreen.
We took a much-needed break at the Bayfront Café for cold drinks and sunburn relief. I slathered on the SPF 70 that I had brought but neglected to use. Had I ruined everything?
Feeling somewhat deflated, I was unprepared for what would come next. We were about to endure the most harrowing chunk of ride. The road is a mess as you head inland here. The traffic is loud, fast and unyielding. (So much for parting the waters.) The bridge over Barnegat Bay is six lanes wide with no shoulder. We proceeded in single file up the long, steep and stressful span, cars speeding by, leaving no margin for error.
The climb seemed endless. We tried to hold our own in the right lane, but the drivers were not buying into that. So we plodded along, staying as close to the curb as possible. The slightest wobble could mean an unscheduled meeting with a speeding SUV’s side-view mirror.
Finally, we reached the top and coasted onto the mainland. Once off the bridge, Route 37 was not much of a reward. The shoulders were wide but strewn with roadside trash: blown tires, tangled chrome, wheel covers, shattered glass, crushed cigarette packs, shards of Styrofoam, the random remains of some unidentifiable critter. (There must be a Springsteen song in this.)
At Toms River Mall, we turned onto Washington Street—just as we reached the 50-mile mark for the day. Downtown Toms River offered a nice change of scenery. After passing the majestic Ocean County Courthouse, we hit a snag in the center of town, turning left when we should have turned right onto 549. I checked my maps, Scott his printed course and Erin her GPS phone. Among the three of us, we figured it out: A left, a right, then another left, and we would be on Route 9, which would take us all the way to LBI.
The afternoon deteriorated from there. Route 9 was featureless, with nothing to distract from our growing aches and pains. Between my toasted thighs and my aching knees, I’d had about enough for one day. To top things off, a pretty good headwind had picked up. We stretched out single file, no one talking. Mary Kate, Erin and I labored over our pedals, while Scott took up the rear, preventing stragglers.
Finally, an LBI sign loomed like an oasis. We just had to maintain for a few more miles. Then in Manahawkin we reached a true oasis: Reynolds Garden Center, where friends greeted us with an unexpected buffet of watermelon slices, cold water and Orangina. Reinvigorated, we got back on the bikes for the final lap—and the day’s final crossing, this one over Manahawkin Bay. As we climbed, the bridge got steeper, the cars drove faster and the shoulder disappeared.
Eager for our destination, I pressed ahead, reaching the apex of the bridge. Somewhere behind me, Erin had just suffered our first punctured tire of the day. Unaware, I sped downhill into LBI. I didn’t get to witness Scott changing Erin’s tire on that nerve-wracking bridge, but I’m sure it was a thing of beauty.
On LBI, the final five miles into Harvey Cedars were effortless. We had travelled 85.2 miles, with an average speed of 11.3 miles per hour. It was 6:30 pm when we reached the beach house where we would spend the night. It was almost 10 1/2 hours since our start in Red Bank.
The second morning of the ride presented two immediate problems. First, none of us was in any particular hurry to get back on the bikes. (Scott, as always, was kind enough not to impose his pace on the rest of us.) Second, once you leave LBI, there’s no good route south for bikes. We could follow Route 9 to Tuckerton, but then we would have to head far inland and double back to reconnect with Route 9 north of Atlantic City.
On LBI, we had been joined for the night by Scott’s wife, Allison, and her brother, Michael Reilly. It was agreed that Allison and Michael would drive us to Atlantic City, cutting at least 30 miles out of the ride. And so it wasn’t until 11:50 that we mounted the bikes in Atlantic City and started heading south on the Boardwalk.
Riding the boardwalks is one of the great sensory pleasures of biking the Shore. Sitting up high, the ocean fills your horizon; velvety sea air slips past; the wooden slats click-clack beneath your wheels. Alas, these opportunities are few and far between. We cruised to the end of Atlantic City’s Boardwalk—the original, and the only one this publication honors with a capital B. Departing the boards in Ventnor City, we picked up Atlantic Avenue, gave a quick wave to Lucy the Elephant in Margate, pressed on to Longport and took the first of two bridges that would take us into Ocean City. It seemed like smooth sailing—but we were about to make the biggest mistake of the trip.
Having worked up a good head of steam on Route 152, the women led the way up the second bridge, a long and steep span over Great Egg Harbor Inlet. It was a laborious climb, and I stopped for a moment mid-bridge to sip from my water bottle and survey the view. We seemed to be heading inland. Meanwhile, in the distance to our left I could see what I reckoned to be Ocean City. Checking my map, it became clear: We should have taken the left turn at the base of this bridge toward the Ocean City toll road.
Scott materialized at my side and I broke the bad news. Without a word, he kicked into high gear to catch up with Mary Kate and Erin, who were well ahead on the downhill side of the bridge, speeding in the wrong direction—enjoying what they thought was the near-completion of another tough crossing.
It took a while for Scott to retrieve them. Waiting at the top of the bridge as they approached, I could see the frustration on their faces. This was not the time for wasted energy. There was not much to say, so we pointed our bikes back toward the road already traveled and coasted down to the proper turn for Ocean City.
The toll road turned out to be a long, flat causeway through a salt marsh, which was a relief, until we got to yet another long, steep bridge. By this point a strong northerly wind had picked up and I could see the women were struggling, still exhausted from the bridge to nowhere.
At least the toll bridge had nice, wide shoulders and provided a great view of Ocean City and its Ferris wheel. Once across, we headed to the beach at Gillian’s Wonderland Pier. Here we were dismayed to learn that no bikes were allowed on the boardwalk after noon; it was already 1:30 pm. We doubled back to Ocean Avenue and headed south through the busy streets.
Mary Kate and Erin had figured out a new distraction. The two never seemed at a loss for things to talk about. In Ocean City they began to debate the perfect reward cocktail for the end of the ride. The headwind blew their words away before I could make out the leading contenders.
Finally, we separated ourselves from Ocean City and followed Ocean Drive toward Cape May County. The marshes grew tall here and the turtle-crossing signs were numerous, although I never did spot any turtles. The shoulders were at least eight feet wide—perhaps my favorite shoulders ever.
We took a gentle bridge over Corson’s Inlet and enjoyed the 360-degree panorama of marshland and inland beach. In the distance a water tower marked the next town—Strathmere. We coasted off the bridge—reaching the 20-mile mark for the day—and descended onto a causeway thick with jungle-like vegetation. There was a rich boggy smell here—a smell you might not catch zipping through in the isolation of an air-conditioned automobile.
Another old toll bridge brought us into Strathmere, perhaps Jersey’s most isolated beach town, quaint and undiscovered, a window into the past. The homes here are modest and more spread out than in the other towns we’d seen. On this Monday, there were few cars passing through.
We pressed on through Whale Beach toward Sea Isle City as the headwind picked up. I was warned that bicycling against the wind would feel like going uphill; I can’t argue with that. At least the day turned out to be overcast—a relief for my crimson thighs.
In Sea Isle City, one neighbor turned to another and asked, “What are you doing?” From her balcony, the second woman replied, “Relaxing.” As if there could be any other answer.
Another local directed us to Fish Alley, where we reconnected with our drivers, Allison and Michael, for lunch at Mike’s Seafood Dock & Raw Bar. Steeling ourselves for the final leg of the ride, we feasted on crab claws, steamers, grilled grouper and lots and lots of water. Mary Kate and Erin were still grousing about the bridge to nowhere. Mary Kate had discovered her least favorite thing in life: “It’s when somebody says, ‘We have to go back the other way.’”
At 4 pm, we were peddling again with 25 miles to go. We had been averaging 10.2 miles per hour—slower than the previous day—so we were looking at about 2 1/2 hours more in the saddle.
The toll bridge over Townsend’s Inlet costs $1.50. Of course, we could cross without paying—another charm of biking. In Avalon, we turned toward the water and picked up Dune Drive, a wide concourse along the shoreline, with a bike lane and blocks of massive waterfront homes. Dune Drive ran on and on until finally at 80th Street it crossed into Stone Harbor, becoming Second Avenue. Then it was a straight run to the south end of town, where we turned right toward the Wildwoods.
South of Stone Harbor the headwind was strong, but we seemed to have gotten our own second wind and picked up the pace to 13 miles per hour. Perhaps we were starting to smell the finish line, even though it was still 15 miles away. We crossed a narrow toll bridge over Hereford Inlet, not very steep, but the wind was just vicious.
In Wildwood, we defied the rules—no biking on the boardwalk after 11 am—and picked our way through the dense waterfront crowd for a few blocks. Not such a great idea. We headed back to Ocean Avenue and continued south. It was late afternoon and the sun was breaking through. Now if only the wind would die down. Without the wind, we would be home free.
Leaving the Wildwoods, we headed south on Route 621. More marshes. An Atlantic Parasail sign loomed ahead, a hint that we were closing in on Cape May.
But first, another bridge—this one with a line of cars standing still on the uphill side. It was unclear how we could navigate this. Each of us picked a path among the cars, cutting in front of some, passing alongside others. At one point, Erin and I almost crashed into each other—a rare, momentary lapse of synchronicity. Once over the top, we got into the line of downhill traffic and poured it on. My speedometer read 25 miles per hour. One last burst.
In the distance I could see the Cape May water tower. Running on fumes, we sped along the causeway through yet another marsh, just trying to get it done.
We turned left on Route 109, just short of Cape May, and there we encountered something we had not seen during the entire trek: a bridge with a sign that declared, “No Bike Riding.” It was a four-lane bridge with no shoulder. There was a good sidewalk, on which we were expected to walk our bikes.
The idea made Scott chuckle. “What the heck,” he said, “it’s not a long bridge.” So we pulled out into the traffic, feeling formidable again. The cars had no choice; the right lane belonged to us.
Coasting off the bridge and into Cape May, the reality set in: I wasn’t certain if I could walk on these tired legs, but I had sure enough biked the Shore.