33 miles
Southern Vermont: Brattleboro to Woodford State Park
If you're thinking of bicycling Vermont, let me tell you what road not to take. Then again, what were we thinking? Vermont Route 9 goes directly across the state, over the Green Mountains.
Looking over my last post, I don't think I conveyed how beat up we were by the morning's ride. We had anticipated about 50 miles to our next overnight stop, a campground south of Bennington. By the time we stopped for lunch, it had taken us four hours to ride 17 miles. At that rate we'd be getting to the campground after 8 p.m. If we lasted that long.
We were discouraged, exhausted, and anxious about the promise of more hills to come.
We looked over the map while we ate lunch, hoping for a new route to magically appear. It didn't.
We'd finished eating but hadn't made any moves to get back on our bikes, just kind of sat there in a tired stupor, enjoying the view, trying to work up an appetite for more hill climbing, when an older gentleman came over to us. "I saw you this morning riding up this way. I've been to White River Junction and now I'm on my way home. That's quite a ride you're doing."
I pictured the distance in my mind. "You've been to White River Junction and back?" That's a long way, even by car. And we'd only done 17 miles. We really were a sad case.
Looking over my last post, I don't think I conveyed how beat up we were by the morning's ride. We had anticipated about 50 miles to our next overnight stop, a campground south of Bennington. By the time we stopped for lunch, it had taken us four hours to ride 17 miles. At that rate we'd be getting to the campground after 8 p.m. If we lasted that long.
We were discouraged, exhausted, and anxious about the promise of more hills to come.
We looked over the map while we ate lunch, hoping for a new route to magically appear. It didn't.
We'd finished eating but hadn't made any moves to get back on our bikes, just kind of sat there in a tired stupor, enjoying the view, trying to work up an appetite for more hill climbing, when an older gentleman came over to us. "I saw you this morning riding up this way. I've been to White River Junction and now I'm on my way home. That's quite a ride you're doing."
I pictured the distance in my mind. "You've been to White River Junction and back?" That's a long way, even by car. And we'd only done 17 miles. We really were a sad case.
He told us he'd been to the VA hospital to get his wounds from a bike crash checked out. "A suicidal dog ran out in front of me."
I said, "Did you kill it?"
"Unfortunately, no."
I had been so immersed in studying our map that I barely glanced at this man. Now I made a more careful inspection. Yup. He was pretty beat up. He had bandages covering his arms and legs where he'd been sewn back together. But he was obviously a true bicyclist, his accident just a bump in the road on his journey to ride the RAGBRAI at the end of July.
Organized by the Des Moines Register, the RAGBRAI is an annual ride across Iowa. Participants' gear is transported from one overnight stop to another. We'd been in Davenport, Iowa, several years before when the RAGBRAI was finishing in that city. The temperature was in the nineties.
I said, "It's too hot. I'd do it if it were in September."
We talked pros and cons of different styles of riding.
He pointed to our bikes. "I don't want to carry all that gear."
"Yeah, we are kind of pack mules. But I like the freedom. If I don't want to get on my bike and ride 70 miles on any given day, I don't have to."
"There's that. Your gear is going so you'd better go, too."
He told us that the last ten miles to Bennington could be a bear. It turned out that he lived in North Adams, home of the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass. MOCA), which was our destination for the next day. He said we could turn directly south to North Adams without going all the way to Bennington, and the ride was mostly downhill.
Even if we made it to Bennington, which wasn't sounding like much fun, we'd still have another 8 miles south to the private campground we were aiming for. We took another look at the map and found Woodford State Park, with a campground, a few miles past the turnoff he was talking about. It looked to be about 15 miles. We could do that much. This didn't require any discussion; it was the alternate plan we'd kept hoping to find every time we examined the map.
Even if we made it to Bennington, which wasn't sounding like much fun, we'd still have another 8 miles south to the private campground we were aiming for. We took another look at the map and found Woodford State Park, with a campground, a few miles past the turnoff he was talking about. It looked to be about 15 miles. We could do that much. This didn't require any discussion; it was the alternate plan we'd kept hoping to find every time we examined the map.
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On our bikes after lunch, we were thrilled to see this sign. 6% downhill grade for 3/4 miles. Not much, but after all the climbing in the morning we were ecstatic about any bit of downhill.
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| Our change in plans made the afternoon much more pleasant. We stopped for about an hour at the library in Wilmington where I did some writing and Rob some trip research. |
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| This picture doesn't do justice to the picturesque town of Wilmington, Vermont. We strolled down Main Street, admiring the rustic buildings that housed local businesses. Alas, we found nothing open that suited our fancy for afternoon tea. But we did find a statue of the famous Molly Stark, who never set foot in the town. |
Seven miles after Wilmington we arrived at the top of another hill and the road to North Adams. Tomorrow we would be riding back to this junction. And I thought, I'm too tired to do any more climbing but if we have a long downhill from here then we'll have to climb back uphill tomorrow morning and I don't want to do that either. So, please, let it be flat for the next few miles to the campground.
It wasn't flat, but it was gently rolling hills and that was okay. With several miles to go our luck with the dark clouds that had been hovering over us all day finally gave out and the rain came down hard. We rode into the campground cold and wet. That made two days out of four finishing with a ride in the rain.
The campground office had already closed by the time we arrived after five o'clock. Good fortune shined on us through the rain and we found a site with a lean-to, and discovered we had enough change for hot showers. Soon we were warm and dry and thankful for the serendipitous meeting with the man who offered us an alternative itinerary, saving us from our poor planning.
Rob and I agreed that Route 9 was a disappointment scenically. With the exception of our lunch stop we couldn't recall any beautiful views from the day. Maybe because we were too busy swearing at the hills.
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