28 miles
Woodford State Park, VT, to North Adams, MA
Tucked into the northwestern corner of Massachusetts are two well-known art museums that I'd been eager to get to for some years, the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass MoCA) and the Clark Art Institute. When we readjusted this trip to make it more of a meander I suggested we put these museums on the itinerary. (See the Prologue.)
The beauty of our change in plans yesterday was that we were only 20 miles from the Mass MoCA so we could still get there by the time it opened at 10 a.m. We did get an early start, on the road before eight o'clock, under a cloudy sky with rain threatening, and cool enough that I put on an extra sweater and warm tights over my shorts.
We backtracked several miles on Route 9 to Highway 8 which would take us directly south to North Adams and once we got to the junction the sky had cleared and the sun warmed us enough to stop and take off our extra clothing. We looked at the road that was supposed to be easy and downhill and saw a hill going the wrong way - up. Rob said, "That guy yesterday was pulling our leg."
I sincerely hoped not. But after getting over that first hill we came to another that was shorter but steeper. I decided it was too early in the morning for this nonsense and got off my bike and walked up. Then more downs and ups.
But soon enough we were doing the kind of riding that you dream about: fresh morning air caressing our faces; legs effortlessly turning the pedals, faster, then faster still; cruising past barns, fields of cows and hay bales, and tree-covered hillsides; riding on smooth roads with wide shoulders and only the occasional car. Ten or more perfect miles, miles that give you the taste of perfection, the reason you get on your bike and fight the fight we fought yesterday.
I said a thank you to the man who gave us such great advice as we sailed along through a valley, past wind turbines, and on into North Adams.
Once in North Adams we found the Mass MoCA pretty easily by following the many signs showing us the way. It is housed in a collection of old brick mill buildings similar to those you find in many New England towns and cities.
We were heading over to a corner of the parking lot to park our bikes when we were accosted by a slender man - looked to be in his late sixties, early seventies - who appeared suddenly as if from nowhere.
He said he was going on his first ever bike trip, solo, via credit card, in France, for three weeks. (Credit card bike tourists can travel light since they charge all their food and overnight accommodations.) He had all his nights booked ahead, planned to ride 30 miles a day. He kept talking while Rob and I locked our bikes. I took off my riding shoes and socks, packed a bag of food for lunch. I wanted him to move on so I could discreetly change out of my riding shorts and into more comfortable street shorts. He kept talking. I was eager to get into the art museum. This was what we'd ridden all those miles for, I didn't want to waste a minute. But I never want to put off another cyclist. I told him it sounded like he had everything figured out and I'd never biked in Europe. What did he need to know?
"I'm worried about what will happen to my reservation if I break down."
I said, "Do you have a thumb?" I wasn't being flippant. The best advice I ever got was from someone who told me about hitchhiking when you are in a pickle on a bike trip. People do stop to pick up cyclists; they realize you are probably trying to get a ride because you are in trouble.
He said he was renting a bike and I assured him that he would be fine, he could call the bike rental shop if he ran into trouble.
Then I made the mistake of getting out my map and asking him about riding around the area of North Adams. He showed me some back roads north to Bennington and then some more and didn't want to let go of the map. I finally said, "You'll have to avert your eyes while I change out of these shorts." He kept on talking while I did my quick-change act.
Meanwhile Rob had locked his bike, had his flip-flops on, looked like he was ready to go. I got my map back and put away and said, "It sounds like you've got it all figured out for your trip to France. Have a great time."
Even now, as I write this, I wonder where that man came from. He just appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of a parking lot. He wasn't even going to the museum.
The beauty of our change in plans yesterday was that we were only 20 miles from the Mass MoCA so we could still get there by the time it opened at 10 a.m. We did get an early start, on the road before eight o'clock, under a cloudy sky with rain threatening, and cool enough that I put on an extra sweater and warm tights over my shorts.
We backtracked several miles on Route 9 to Highway 8 which would take us directly south to North Adams and once we got to the junction the sky had cleared and the sun warmed us enough to stop and take off our extra clothing. We looked at the road that was supposed to be easy and downhill and saw a hill going the wrong way - up. Rob said, "That guy yesterday was pulling our leg."
I sincerely hoped not. But after getting over that first hill we came to another that was shorter but steeper. I decided it was too early in the morning for this nonsense and got off my bike and walked up. Then more downs and ups.
But soon enough we were doing the kind of riding that you dream about: fresh morning air caressing our faces; legs effortlessly turning the pedals, faster, then faster still; cruising past barns, fields of cows and hay bales, and tree-covered hillsides; riding on smooth roads with wide shoulders and only the occasional car. Ten or more perfect miles, miles that give you the taste of perfection, the reason you get on your bike and fight the fight we fought yesterday.
I said a thank you to the man who gave us such great advice as we sailed along through a valley, past wind turbines, and on into North Adams.
 |
| Can you see the wind turbines along the top of the ridge? |
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| We averaged 12 mph into North Adams. I realize that for many cyclists that may not seem all that fast, but remember we're carrying a lot. And we're getting old. |
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| North Adams |
We were heading over to a corner of the parking lot to park our bikes when we were accosted by a slender man - looked to be in his late sixties, early seventies - who appeared suddenly as if from nowhere.
He said he was going on his first ever bike trip, solo, via credit card, in France, for three weeks. (Credit card bike tourists can travel light since they charge all their food and overnight accommodations.) He had all his nights booked ahead, planned to ride 30 miles a day. He kept talking while Rob and I locked our bikes. I took off my riding shoes and socks, packed a bag of food for lunch. I wanted him to move on so I could discreetly change out of my riding shorts and into more comfortable street shorts. He kept talking. I was eager to get into the art museum. This was what we'd ridden all those miles for, I didn't want to waste a minute. But I never want to put off another cyclist. I told him it sounded like he had everything figured out and I'd never biked in Europe. What did he need to know?
"I'm worried about what will happen to my reservation if I break down."
I said, "Do you have a thumb?" I wasn't being flippant. The best advice I ever got was from someone who told me about hitchhiking when you are in a pickle on a bike trip. People do stop to pick up cyclists; they realize you are probably trying to get a ride because you are in trouble.
He said he was renting a bike and I assured him that he would be fine, he could call the bike rental shop if he ran into trouble.
Then I made the mistake of getting out my map and asking him about riding around the area of North Adams. He showed me some back roads north to Bennington and then some more and didn't want to let go of the map. I finally said, "You'll have to avert your eyes while I change out of these shorts." He kept on talking while I did my quick-change act.
Meanwhile Rob had locked his bike, had his flip-flops on, looked like he was ready to go. I got my map back and put away and said, "It sounds like you've got it all figured out for your trip to France. Have a great time."
Even now, as I write this, I wonder where that man came from. He just appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of a parking lot. He wasn't even going to the museum.
 |
| Check out that downhill. Yes, it was as much fun as it looks. |
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