Worth the Risk?

To Rockport, MA

When I met Rob he didn’t own a bicycle. But when he realized how passionate I was about cycling he decided to buy one. Then I invited him to join me on a two-day ride through Rocky Mountain National Park, convinced him to compete in a triathlon, and watched as he got side-swiped by a hit-and-run driver on a mountain road outside Boulder, Colorado. That last episode cost him a piece of collarbone.

Rob, in turn, witnessed my acrobatic flip when I hit a rock on a ride several years later. The concussion from the fall buried any memory of my takeoff and flight. But it would have been worse if a patch of poison ivy hadn’t cushioned my landing.

We've had our share of crises, both on and off the road. But we made it to our 33rd anniversary and decided to celebrate with an overnight ride to Rockport, Massachusetts. Starting from our house in Madbury, New Hampshire, I calculated the ride to be about 70 miles each way. We'd arrive in Rockport around 3 in the afternoon, giving us time to walk around and browse some of the shops and art galleries.

We were on the road by 7:30 a.m., the air fresh and shadows long. We soon stopped to take off our jackets as the day heated up.

After 15 miles on quiet country roads, we turned onto a major highway heading east towards the seacoast, cars passing by at high speeds, one after another, big trucks with a WHOOSH! of wind as I grabbed tight onto my handlebars to stay upright. I focused on sinking into a cruising speed of 17 miles an hour, thankful for the wide, smooth shoulder.

As we approached the coast, the heavy hot air became a cool gentle breeze and the stink of exhaust gave way to the pungent smell of salt water. We turned south on coastal Route 1A and took on a more relaxed pace. In spring, the seacoast belongs to the locals who, like us, are fortunate enough to escape for a summer preview in the middle of the week. Those old enough to be done with the working life and too young for school walk the beaches. Black dots in the surf that look like sea lions are surfers in wetsuits hanging out on their boards, thankful for any wave the calm sea offers. Businesses along the road are closed on a weekday, tourists only a trickle. We savored this part of the ride, with smooth roads and only the occasional car passing by at a moderate speed.

Condominiums and motels, one after another, signaled our arrival in Hampton Beach, the tourist mecca of the New Hampshire seashore. The long untarnished stretch of beach provides a stark contrast to the arcades, T-shirt shops and junk food stands on the opposite side of the road. In July we'll occasionally come to check out the sculptures during the annual sand sculpture contest but otherwise we stay away from the crowds and traffic that congregate here during the hot summer months.

Traffic was sparse. But it takes only one car to ruin a bicyclist’s day. A white sedan passed dangerously close beside me, slowed down, pulled over, drove back into my lane, slowed again. I stayed back, too nervous to pass. When it finally pulled over and stopped, I rode up and knocked on the window. Two older women were inside. The driver rolled down her window and I said, “You passed me way too close back there.”

She apologized and said they were lost. I tried to give directions. But getting back on my bike I just hoped they got the message to drive more carefully. If I’d landed in the hospital or funeral home after they hit me, they wouldn’t care if they were lost. And I’d care even less.

From Hampton Beach we rode over the bridge to Seabrook. Three years ago, during a Granite State Wheelmen century ride, a young woman, driving without a license and high on drugs, sped over the bridge into the opposite lane. She plowed into four cyclists riding single file, killing two and severely injuring the others.

On the other side of the bridge I looked for the makeshift memorials for the two women who died. There they were, in a sand dune by the side of the road, pictures and plastic flowers sitting in the sand dune by the side of the road.

The tragedy brought into focus for every serious bicyclist in this part of New England how dangerous our sport is. I wrote a feature article commemorating the first anniversary of that ride for a local paper. Several of the riders I interviewed, some of them witnesses to the crash, said it would be several months before they would get back on their bikes. Yet, not a single person considered hanging up their bicycle for good. I’m sure it’s different for each of us, but whatever it is about cycling that grabs your soul, it owns you forever.

The two riders who survived are both riding again.

[Here’s the article. http://www.fosters.com/article/20140914/GJNEWS_01/140919609]

I'd love to hear from other cyclists. What is it about bicycling that keeps us riding, even when we hear of yet another rider killed on the road?

Not All Rides Are Fun and Games

May 15, 2016

"I have no idea where we are."

We had finally come to an intersection, but I couldn’t find it on my map. I guessed that we had bicycled off the page I had brought along, and now we were on another page, one left at home. 

Rob and I were exploring a new route from Madbury, New Hampshire, to York Beach in Maine. It had been a lovely ride so far. Riding along quiet country roads, we’d had a light tail wind; I had wanted to average 12 miles per hour, and we were riding comfortably at 13. We passed lush green fields, with horses grazing here and there. The yellow daffodils and forsythia of two weeks ago had given way to gentle purples of lilacs and phlox. The trees sparkled with yellow-green spring leaves. All was fine except that somehow we had turned up on the wrong road.

I flagged down a pickup truck as it pulled up to the stop sign.

“We’re trying to get to York,” I told the woman in the passenger’s seat. “We seem to be lost.”

“We’re going that way, over the mountain. You turn left here and then take a right.”

For some reason that didn’t make sense. After they pulled away, I checked with the woman in my smart phone. She confirmed the left turn. We’d ridden extra miles but we weren’t too far off course.

Then we hit dirt and gravel for a stretch of road work. Bouncing along, I felt unsteady and unclipped from one of my pedals, just in case. But we turned off onto a paved road – Mountain Road - soon enough, taking us over Mt. Agamenticus. Then we were on dirt again and I started skidding going up a hill when my tires wouldn’t grab. I glanced at my map, and couldn’t see where it was marked as unpaved; I guess I can’t trust the map. Fortunately the sparse traffic didn’t kick up much dust.

The Cape Neddick River runs into the ocean just north of York Beach.

Back on pavement, easy riding brought us to the coastal road. At 30 miles we arrived in York Beach, a strip of summer rentals, ice cream stands and T-shirt shops. Tucked down a side street that dead-ended onto the beach was our destination, Rossi's Italian Bakery, a treasure my friends and I had found on a bike ride a couple years ago.

But it wasn't there. Just a sign that said “Bakery For Lease or Sale.” 

A young man saw us standing, dejected, in front of the empty storefront. "They moved. The rent went up. They're over on Route 1 now."

Gone.

Route 1 is the main thoroughfare running north and south just slightly inland from the coast, crowded with traffic lights, strip malls, restaurants, and tourist junk shops. We weren't going to bike over there, not even for a delicious Italian pastry.

Even with the setbacks, we enjoyed the morning. But our day turned around from the point when our destination disappeared.

We rode out to Nubble Lighthouse, one of those tourist places where everyone stops – artists, bicyclists, tour buses, families with kids excitedly climbing all over the rocky shoreline. A cold wind was blowing today; I put on my neck warmer, thankful I’d brought it. Rob and I sat on one of the stone benches overlooking the surf and ate our hummus and tomato sandwiches, with no delicious Italian pastry for dessert. I pulled out a tiny fun-size bag of M&Ms that I had discovered in the pantry that morning.

"There aren't enough to share," I said. The entire bagful didn't even fill my hand, nothing fun about that.

"Come on, give me some," said Rob.

There were four blue ones. Blue is Rob's favorite color. "Here, I'll give you the blue ones."

The benches had inscriptions on them, many in memory of someone.

I said, “When I die, throw my ashes somewhere in the Rocky Mountains and dedicate a bench to me.”

 

Rob perked up after I shared 
my M&Ms with him.
That's Nubble Lighthouse in the distance.

I was hanging out with the bikes while Rob went to the restroom. A man heading into the gift shop said, "You're courageous to be out riding in this wind."

"Oh, it won't be bad," I said. "It's always windy here because we're out on a point."

But I was wrong. That light tailwind we had in the morning became a strong headwind that plagued us the entire way home. Pushing against it, I was climbing hills I’d never noticed before on this ride. And that damn wind kept throwing crap into my eyes.

When we passed through Kittery, I thought about calling for a stop at Lil's, my favorite café. I was getting hungry and sure would enjoy something delicious. But I decided to tough it out, build some character, and I’ve got excess weight to get rid of. Besides, we had planned to get home in time to catch up on some chores and we were already heading into overtime.

After passing Kittery we had a terrific view 
of theSarah Long Bridge that connects 
Maine andNew Hampshire.

We had saved the most scenic part of the ride for the return trip, but it was lost on me. I thought about my celebration ride two weeks ago, grateful the weather was perfect that day.

We were almost back in Dover, less than an hour from home. I called to Rob to pull off as we passed by a golf course.

I said, “I need to eat.”

We sat on a stone wall and pulled out the rest of our food, apples and peanuts. Rob tucked his apple core inside the stone wall. “That’ll make a squirrel happy,” he said.

Once we got through Dover, we took the direct way home, down the state highway with traffic whizzing by, thankful for the wide shoulder. Once on the quiet country road that took us to our neighborhood, I no longer cared about how fast we were going, or about the chores that weren’t going to get done. I was just happy to get home, shower, and take a nap.

I had wanted to average at least 12 miles an hour. We barely made 11. But we had ridden 66 miles in tough conditions. I’ll call it a successful training ride. In a week Rob and I are celebrating our anniversary by bicycling to Rockport, Massachusetts, and back. It's about 70 miles one way, maybe 80. We want to make sure we’re in good enough shape to enjoy it.

At dinner Rob went on and on about what a great day he had, what a beautiful ride that was. I’m usually the optimistic one, so I am completely befuddled. Where did he ride today and who was that riding with me?