Blueberry Capital of the World

Vineland Bears, from left: Fonz, Pogy, Captain, Princess, CT Blogger.

Motorcycle Polar Bear Blog, ride to DeThomasi's East Five Points Inn, Vineland, NJ, January 3, 2016.

By: Chris Loynd

Our first ride of 2016 took us deep into the New Jersey Pinelands. I grew up calling them the Pine Barrens, but like many things from my past, there is a new, politically correct, moniker. To be fair, they are lovely. Today they glowed under a cloudless sky colored a pale blue by winter's weaker sun. Not exactly barren, a million-plus acres of scrub pine growing in sandy soil transform here and there via modern agriculture to give fruit, lots of fruit. In fact, we rode through the Blueberry Capital of the World, Hammonton, NJ, the world, mind you, not just of New Jersey or the U.S. or North America.

Take tabletop-flat land of deep sandy soils, add irrigation and fertilizer, and you essentially have hydroponic gardening on a gigantic scale. We headed south on Route 206 from the Fort Dix, excuse me, the Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, exit off of the New Jersey Turnpike.

Some of the first farms we rode through were sod farms, still bright green due to our so far mild winter. These flat sandy soils are perfect for growing covers for golf courses and wealthy estates. Then I saw the reddish stalks pruned into uniform bushes arranged in neat rows, fields of them over miles. I was pretty sure of the crop. It's hard to be sure looking at mid-winter twigs, at speed. Months from now summer sun's kiss brings forth leaf and berry to confirm my diagnosis. Then I saw the sign: Blueberry Capital of the World.

New Jersey is actually fifth in blueberry production, behind, in order: Michigan, Georgia, Oregon and Washington. Of New Jersey blueberries, 80 percent come from fields surrounding Hammonton. They hold a Blueberry Festival in June. Our route took us straight through quaint downtown Hammonton, come to life from a Frank Capra film.

My GPS advised running the turnpike to exit 4 and then cutting across. I'm so glad our leader this week, Pogy, chose exit 7 instead. It was more interesting and far more scenic. Plus I got a chance to stretch my legs at a stoplight or two.

For reasons I never learned, Pogy offered to take the lead this trip. He did a great job. And I tried to pay him a compliment at lunch. I was going to make a joke about having nothing to write in this blog because Pogy's lead was so smooth. But it's tough to get a joke out when you don't control timing of the delivery. That's why every comedian has a straight man. Pogy would not oblige.

Before I could get to the punch line he started making lascivious comments, Joanna defended herself, Pogy made a feeble attempt at recovery, Captain complained in disbelief when the criticism suddenly shifted to him . . . and the moment was gone.

We couldn't pick on Pogy too much. He generously treated us all.

At our destination Pogy led us into the wrong restaurant door. Clomping up to the maitre d' in our multi-layered clothing, wires sticking out of the sleeves, compression marks from helmets still on our foreheads and cheeks, the restaurateur asked, "Polar bears?" "Why yes," we answered, "we are Polar Bears." The maitre d'hotel suggested we exit the way we came and take the other door. Upstairs from the restaurant proper, our friends at the Five Points offered up a generous and tasty buffet.

We feasted on a wonderful buffet and Pogy's largess then headed home.

Photos below courtesy of Dave Thompson from the Polar Bear Grand Tour web site.

We arrive.

Princess still paddling in the parking lot.