Somewhere in those Ohio days, it was determined that I had outgrown my first ten speed. The next up was a blue Puch–pronounced, by us at least, as “poosh”. I remember I could barely reach the pedals. No doubt, parental wisdom dictated that they acquire something large enough for me to grow into. It came with me when we moved back to Brookfield, Connecticut and took up residence in an ancient saltbox on Obtuse Hill Road, just a mile or so beyond the country store which had been our first destination.
We rode regularly; sometimes as a family, sometimes just my Dad and I. We had a usual route with some significant hills, each of which had a name. Obtuse Hill itself was a rare New England road that cut straight through the landscape. It charged up a small hill behind our house and then dropped down a long descent where it crossed a reservoir. It had a fair bit of traffic, and some of it fast. It was not the ride of choice but was necessarily the road to anywhere.
Just across the bridge over the reservoir, we turned left onto a much smaller and quieter climb out of the river valley, “The Juicer”, so named because it ‘got your juices flowing’. Across the top we maneuvered through some shady lanes eventually crossing the village of Bridgewater. Turning back there was an option, but normally we followed small, winding roads over to the other side of town. Among the variety of route choices on that side of the town, we found a short flat stretch which became our sprinting ground. At some point, before we left, it became the first place I ever beat my Dad in a sprint. It is quite possible that he let me win, but such heresy would never have crossed my young brain. In that area there were a couple of more hills. While less significant, I made sure each had a title that reflected its personality. Those names are lost to me now, but I’ll never forget the chief bastard of them all. “The Drain” was the long, straight pull up out of the reservoir back towards home. It was the final kick in the gut after a 25 mile ride, and always siphoned off the last of our energy.
Cycling continued to evolve as my portal into an alternate reality. My school bus route included The Drain. Our bus twisted through the neighborhoods on either side of the main road to collect assorted classmates. Most of them rode that hill in cars several times a day and they would never know it the way I knew it. They didn’t know the shadowy piece on the right, just past the bridge, the downshifting in those first 200 yards or the resigned commitment to just grind it out that settled in towards the end of that first quarter mile. For them, the crest held no satisfaction. There was no shift into tighter gears, no chance to stand, shift weight, remove the pressure on their cheeks or to reposition hands onto the drop bars.
Neither could they know me. I was a geek –– a fat kid who just didn’t make sense to most of them. I cycled that route solo a few times. At least once, I looped through the bus-stop neighborhoods hoping to see and be seen by some of those who caused me so much discomfort on the bus rides. I would love to have provoked at least the faintest bit of doubt or uncertainty but I saw no one. Even if I passed through someone’s gaze, I remained unseen. My strength, my power, remained secret.
In truth, I did have my posse in those years of 5th, 6th and 7th grade. No doubt, we would be described as a clique. They were the kids in the enrichment program, doing extra studies, and way into Dungeons & Dragons. Never would I have mentioned, in any way, any ride I did. I played football as well. I enjoyed it. I think I was a decent player, but for a Pop Warner lineman there was not a lot of status to be collected. There was even less in riding. I gained no sense of superiority but that fundamental belief in my capability continued to deepen. What some saw as an impossible, ill-considered journey I could sketch out on a map, navigate and arrive. I knew I had limits, and I knew how to push them. Such lessons sink deep.
My Dad got it into his head that we should ride from our home in Brookfield, Connecticut to my Grandparents house in Montpelier, VT. To me, that sounded like a grand adventure. It was the first time I was ever aware of training for something. We did our 25 mile loop regularly, and we were, I recall, averaging about 14 miles an hour. This trip was my first time using panniers, but we packed light and planned to stay in hotels along the way. I don't remember a set time table or target mileage for each day. If my Dad had an agenda, he kept it to himself. The basic plan was to follow Route 7 up into Vermont. At some point we would have to break off and head up into the Mad River Valley. There were two big climbs already in our mental mile markers. One that we had ridden previously was in Sharon, Connecticut near the Mass border. The other was Mendon Mountain, a climb out of Rutland, Vermont by the Killington ski area.
Day one was a long day of mighty fine riding. There were a couple of places where Route 7 had been widened and traveled through commercial areas–three and four lane roads, exposed, noisy, and without shade. But mostly we were on tight community roads wreathed in green. Occasionally, we were serenaded by creeks and rivers and indulged in peaceful, shady stops. The anticipated big pull out of Sharon came and went –– about as expected. My clearest image from the day was the two of us resting on the green outside of the Williams Inn in Williamstown, Massachusetts where we decided to call it a day. Apparently just over 100 miles lay behind us.
Williamstown is one of those places which has been layered with many phases of my life. By the time of this ride my Dad may have been 31 years old. I had come into the world when he was a sophomore at Williams College. I have the vaguest memories of the cabin we lived in – well off campus, and of Fairdale Farms over the Vermont border where my Dad worked at the dairy. In my 11 year-old brain this was all vague and a bit cozy. The history was an extra hint of warmth in the sun as we sat on the green on that fine summer day. I would later ride and walk by that very spot many times during my days as a student –– and cross it once again on a significant ride with my daughter.
We crossed into Vermont early the next morning. As we climbed away from Williamstown, we came to a section of the new, modernized Route 7. The road was sterile, broad and featureless. The shoulders were wide but the traffic was fast. In those morning hours, the absence of shade was an insignificant detail, but that wouldn’t last long. Throughout that day we alternated between these high-speed zones and sections of “the old Route 7” now bypassed by modernized highways. Occasionally we were treated to a few “unimproved” bits that were yummier still. There, however, was no way to escape the broad concrete slab that led into Rutland. We baked in the afternoon sun as the cars whizzed by. I don’t think either of us were having much fun at that moment. It was a stretch meant for just marking out the miles. Crossing through the center of town we pulled into a side street and took a break on the grass in front of a church. It was time to determine if we would tackle The Mountain that day. It was hot, but I didn’t feel too bad. On we went.
Even back then, Route 4 was not a particularly beautiful road. It turned off of Route 7 in the heart of Rutland and began a long, gradual climb past gas stations, strip malls, and the sundry ski shops that served Killington –– sometimes 3 lanes, sometimes 4, broad shoulders and baking sun. It was a solid 10 miles all in some flavor of up. There were some stretches of big ring cruising, and a few sections dedicated to grinding. With roughly 80 miles under our belts the climb was a somber commitment, but, as with most things cycling, we settled in to do the job.
Most days, riding has an uneasy coexistence with the rest of life. It is squeezed among all the other priorities and pressures. There is the window where I can get out, and a time by which I must get back to do what has to be done in other facets of my life. On such days, the rides are measured and paced. I know which climb I am on and where each one fits into the route of the day. I have an intimacy with the contours of each bit. I know the shifting points, the rough spots, and places where I might rest. My body anticipates the crests and calculates just how much I can open up on the descents.
Riding in unknown territory allows for a bit of discovery. I don’t know how long the pitch is, or how steep it will get. Do I have an empty stretch ahead of me? Or does this bit open up on to a local artery–overly busy and under maintained? A touring day adds a whole other dimension to the exploration. Schedules removed, deadlines suspended, pace ignored… the road just is. Destination, start, end often fade into a misty, distant background–barely perceptible through the burning, salty clarity of the here and now. We remind ourselves to drink and rest as the grinding inertia pulls us forward with no clear sense of how much longer. So I was surprised when we crested the highest point on Route 4. It was still early enough in the afternoon to desire shade, but not so early as to require it.
The mental game of cycling provides many lessons that are inevitably relearned. This, however, was my first stumble into the lesson of exuberant triumph. While that stretch of Route 4 may not be the most beautiful, it had abundant options for hotels and food. With the most challenging hill of our route vanquished, we were feeling TOO GOOD to stop. We slid off of that highest point and veered left down Route 100.
Route 100 was a damn fine Vermont road –– sinuous and shady with a good bit of shoulder. After baking on the wide open slab, caught in the constant growl of speeding cars, this was a delicious paradise – coasting through the banking corners of the long descent; buzzing on the endorphin hum. Only on the second or third little rolling climb, long after the sweet descent had faded, did I realize that we were in the middle of the woods –– nary a gas station to be seen. Nothing but a LONG pull behind us if we were to turn around. Strength fading, there was little choice but to push on. We made it to a tiny strip motel that barely clung to existence on that empty stretch. It was deep in a narrow section of the valley, barely far enough off the road to allow for parking. We at least had a place to sleep, but our snacks were depleted. The nearest restaurant was more than 10 miles UP behind us, and the hotel owner had no suggestions for the other direction. Once again, we had clocked over 100 miles.
Salvation came from my grandparents who drove down and whisked us out for dinner back towards Rutland. I don’t remember much about that dinner except that I learned we were a mere 65 miles from Montpelier. There would be some long grades and rolling hills, but no big climbs until the final heft up Main Street on the far side of Montpelier.
Back on the road the next day we headed north past the intersection with Route 107 onto a section of road that I would cover some 20 years later for my wife’s first century ride. While the pavement was not always the best, it was a lovely stretch of road that flowed up along the headwaters of the White River and then crossed over into the Mad River Valley near the town of Warren. On the left we were up tight against the Green Mountains. To our right the valley broadened and narrowed at the whim of lesser ranges. Though smaller, they still loomed above us. The road stuck to the lowlands –– nothing flat, but nothing scary. At Waitsfield, we were back into the known world, and were finally offered a river valley that carried us away from the Greens. We were at the outer reaches of our regular family outings from Montpelier, and soon in the familiar turf of Moretown. From there it was a relatively easy drift back to Montpelier. A few thunder heads threatened and headwinds greeted us on the flats of Route 2, but it was all just a minor annoyance at that point.
My grandparents had recently moved from downtown Montpelier to a place my Mom referred to as ‘the Top of World’. In her childhood they sometimes went there to watch sunsets. Main Street was the way to get there. It was one of those ramping climbs that required a downshift every 30 to 40 yards, gradually depleting the reserve and always leaving me a bit disappointed that the levers stop moving well before a steep left turn. The turn itself suggested completion but really only closed the first phase of a long journey up a big ridge The path to Grammy and Grampa continued past the turn, off to the right, and with additional grinding up to the farm at the top of Town Hill Road. We took the short, sharp descent down what became known as “No Boy Friend Hill” and dropped onto a dirt road skirting through an open field and on to the last pull. On the top of that little monster we paused, the mountains unfolded out towards New Hampshire, shimmering and peaceful in the afternoon light.
I rolled into my Grandparent's house some 270 miles richer and having bagged back to back century rides. It would be more than 20 years before I did another one. For me the big deal was riding all the way from my home to my grandparents house. This was the eternal, profoundly-boring, family car ride on the interstate laid out in cycling terms. I could now measure it in turns of pedals, back roads, shady hideaways, whispering rivers, long climbs, and delicious turns. It was mine. I had arrived.
The next day my Dad and Grampa continued up through the Northeast Kingdom to the Canadian border. It was a route we would use some years later to inaugurate his tandem. For him that was the arrival point, but it held no magic for me. I was perfectly happy to hang out at my grandparents house and splash in their pool. Life was about to get a whole lot messier.
buy me a coffee
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