In 2007 ebikes were not common if they even existed, so I was surprised to find that HAHA came with electric power. Perhaps it would be more accurate to declare HAHA a peculiar species of hybrid vehicle.
Summer thunderstorms in Vermont were often intense but also highly localized. The ones that packed a punch formed along cold fronts coming out of the northwest heading east, and even these could be unpredictable. There were many days when the black clouds threatened on the horizon but never found us. Sometimes we were on wet roads for many miles but never saw rain.
I first discovered HAHA’s unique electrical capabilities on one of these close calls. We were riding north through one of our many Vermont river valleys as the clouds approached out of the West. At first the effect was so subtle that I thought something might be off in our cadence. Finally, when a strike was close enough to light up a chunk of the Western sky, I concluded that the surge of power was unmistakable.
“Oye, mi Bella, estamos en el fondo de la valle. No hay ningún peligro acá.” [Hey, my dear, we’re in the bottom of the valley. There’s no danger here.]
“I know, but it still spooks me.”
Daysi wasn’t afraid of lightning per se, but she did seem to be of more highly conductive material than most of us. Static charge was fond of her, to the point where, in the dry winter months, I made sure to ground myself by touching her hand before going in for a kiss. Though I have no scars to prove it, I am pretty sure we burned our lips once or twice. Small appliances have died at her touch. Given her chemistry she was probably right to respect high voltage from the heavens. Plus, she is one of these people with an especially energetic startle reflex. When we were on HAHA this was all to my benefit. Her reflexes converted a crashing wave of thunderous sound into remarkable wattage. I hit the power jackpot when something was close enough for us to catch a bright flash. In the heavily wooded hills and valleys of Vermont, there were few places where getting struck was a real risk. Even dirt roads rarely reached the tops of ridges.
On this day we wanted to log 80 miles. The plan was to go up through the heights of Cabot and then cross on Route 15 into Morrisville and take Route12 back to Montpelier. There were reports of possible thunder showers, but we had long ago learned that waiting for ideal conditions in the North Country was a fool's errand. Despite the predictions of Armageddon, most rides worked out just fine. Coming through the winding flats into Cabot, we could see that, this time, we were unlikely to be spared. The black wall building in the western skies stretched as far north as we could see. It wouldn’t be the first time we got wet.
Perfect timing. The thunder began just as we started the long, steep climb out of Cabot. I was grateful for the extra bursts of power coming from the back of the bike. Getting up to the heights gave us a clearer picture of what our future held. The bright green of the corn and hay fields was especially intense when framed by the black clouds beyond. We could already see the thick gray curtains falling into the valley below.
"Looks like we might get wet, my dear.”
“Keep moving.” She replied.
BOOM! Wee haw! Power surged. “Another blast like that, and I might need to use the brakes on this climb.”
She snorted.
The first rain drops caught us as the climb tapered to a gentle incline across the ridge. They rode in on the forward edge of a freight train. The wind hit our left side. Hard. For a brief moment we saw the trees across the field swirl and dance –– more liquid than solid. The lighter green from the backs of the leaves smeared into patches and waves that tore across the darker green of the forest.
Then the grey curtain closed in. Complete chaos. Sometimes more horizontal than vertical, there was no gap in the wall of water that engulfed us. I was most concerned by the inevitable temperature drop. At first, it was a cool relief that quenched the exertion of the long climb, but I worried about the temperature moving too far. It stabilized, and at a level that just barely registered as uncomfortable –– no danger there. I evaluated our status through the feel of HAHA. Daysi’s cadence was steady and remained smooth; no longer spiking as the sky lit up around us. Flashes of lightning registered only a brief bright spot in the grey soup and the thunder was only a dull, throaty bass note buried under the hammering rain and howling gusts.
“How are you doing back there?”
“What?”
“How are you doing?”
“What?”
“HOW ARE YOU DOING?”
“WET.”
Ironically, in the constant bombardment her power curve had leveled out. Now caught in the belly of the beast with no options for escape, she knew exactly what needed to be done.
By the time we made it to the intersection of Route 15, the worst of the wind had died down, but we were still moving through a wall of water –– worth a pause. We unclipped. Standing over the bike I twisted around to behold my bedraggled wife. I found her smiling.
“You warm enough?”
“I’ll be okay. Let’s keep moving.”
Route 15 from Walden Heights into Hardwick was a fast 7 miles, almost all downhill. With the weight of two riders on them, HAHA’s wheels cut straight through the water sheeting across the road. I tested the brakes a few times and was satisfied by their grip. Speed was limited only by visibility. I was not intimate with this stretch of road but I had ridden it enough to know there were no major potholes. The surface itself was hidden beneath the water. So we treated it like most any other descent –– get our butts up and trust the bike. I kept us away from edges where surprises were most likely to lurk and had to hope we were visible enough to the occasional cars. My feet were in a constant power wash of warmish water coming off the pavement, and the cooling effect of flying downhill was less than expected. The air was so dense that I felt no evaporation, and the rain was only cool. I knew Daysi had extra protection tucked in behind me.
By the time we made it to the gas station on the edge of Hardwick the rain had diminished to a normal downpour. We were not comfortable but neither was there any immediate danger – just wet, very wet. The promise of getting out of the rain pushed us through the door. The frigid bite of air conditioning turned us around just as quickly. We huddled under one of the eves and chewed on some damp nuts. Damn that salt was good!
For the first (and only) time we decided to abandon our plan and turned back down Route 14 to head home instead of continuing on to Morrisville. It was the wrong call. Though we were still under threatening skies, the rain faded away completely a few miles south of Hardwick. We rode through the bottom of a north-south valley and could no longer see the weather that was moving out of the west. Assuming the worst, we persisted. The wisdom of lycra was again revealed, we were mostly dry by the top of the next climb. Still in the valley, we could see only a few cotton puffs intruding on the bright blue dome above us. We arrived back at our door on a perfect summer day with warm sun, blue skies, fluffy bits of cloud and a light breeze. We were 40 miles short of our target and had missed the finest riding hours of the day.
Our children were oblivious. “Why are you back so early?”
When I removed my shoes in the garage I noted the thick layer of sand pooled into the heel and reminded Daysi that we shouldn’t shed any more clothing until already in the shower. We went in together. The layers came off with enough road grit to form our own private beach banked up in the corners of our shower stall.
“Yeah, I’ll let you explain this one to Ryal (our plumber),” I said as we toweled off and returned to civilian life.
buy me a coffee
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