Boston-Maine Red Eye Express

I still can't believe this, but over the weekend I took part in the first annual Dirigo Dynamo - an unsupported overnight bike ride from Boston to Maine along the New England coast, returning by train in the morning. An homage to the Dunwich Dynamo in the UK, the Dirigo Dynamo was designed to end at the seacoast and to coincide with the full moon. Dirigo is the state motto of Maine and it means "I lead." When this ride was suggested to me, it sounded exciting and knowing both of the organisers (Jon and Brian) I had faith in their leadership. But I also had serious doubts about my ability to do it. The full length of the route was over 200K (120 miles), and I had not ridden that kind of distance before. Neither had I done long rides in the dark before, let alone any all-night rides. As the weekend of the Dirigo Dynamo approached I grew increasingly worried. Could I handle the miles? Could I handle the unlit roads? Could I ride through the night without sleep? Expressing these concerns to others was pointless, because for most cyclists I know a ride like this is either a piece of cake ("Of course you should do it! How else will you ever work up to a 1200K?") or too absurd to contemplate ("Are you insane? You are taking this cycling thing too far!")

When I finally made up my mind to go, there was only a week left to prepare and I started making frantic changes to my bike. I swapped saddles twice, unable to decide which was less likely to cause me pain after 100 miles. I switched my tires for wider ones. And I borrowed a dynamo front wheel from a friend. I then quizzed every randonneur I knew about the merits of various reflective vests and helmet lights, finally acquiring these items days before the ride. In the end it all came together, and my bike - though looking rather frankenbikish - was well equipped for night riding on country roads.

I studied the route and made a plan, my strategy being to pace myself and stick with the slower riders. I also made a bail-out plan in the event of emergency. I thought carefully about food, deciding to opt for specific foods based on my experiences on previous rides. 

Everything I packed on the ride fit either into this deceptively small Dill Pickle bag or in my jersey pockets. This included: tools, two spare tubes, a bungee cord for securing the bike on the train later, a jacket, clear glasses for when it grew dark, band-aids, pain medication, sun screen, chamois cream, food, and a small toy cat (lucky charm). In my jersey pockets I carried money, ID, phone, and more food. I had the route downloaded on GPS and also brought cue-sheets in case the GPS malfunctioned or someone forgot theirs. 

The food I carried included: 6 single packets of almond butter, a bag of sun-dried tomatoes, a bag of dried cranberries, a packet of Stinger "energy chews," a banana, and a small carton of chocolate milk. There was a dinner stop planned at midnight, so this was meant to tide me over in addition to that meal. I filled my water bottles with a home made "salty lemonade" mix, over ice. One had a higher concentrated mixture than the other, identified by the colour of the bottle. 

The meeting point for the ride was at 5:30pm on Saturday evening, at a cafe just a mile from where I live. I planned to stay up late the night before and sleep late on the day of our departure, but I was too nervous and woke up earlier than intended. All through the night I had anxious dreams. In one dream, my hands went numb and I lost the ability to shift gears, just as a hill was coming up. In another dream my dynamo light stopped working. Not only did I fail to get a good night sleep, but I was so nervous that I had trouble eating all day. But finally I force-fed myself an early dinner, got ready, and set off. 

When I arrived, the reassuring sight of several familiar bikes calmed me down a bit. The Mercian, the Rawland, the Bianchi 650B conversion - I was in the right place. Before I even entered the cafe, I knew who would be there. There was a total of 6 of us gathered. In addition to the ride leaders I was pleased to spot JP Twins and Somervillain. 

I also recognised Scott (on the right) from the Ride Studio Cafe. He comes to the Sunday rides but we'd never been introduced until now. I had mistakenly thought Scott was a racer, but it turns out he is a long distance rider. The only person in our group other than myself riding a modern roadbike, the contraptions he had it equipped with were fascinating.

As planned, we set off at 6pm and aside from a quickly-resolved mechanical issue (loose fender bolt) our departure from Boston went off without incident. Nonetheless, I found this first leg of the trip to be highly stressful. There is no easy way to leave town heading North and for what must have been 10 miles we navigated busy suburban roads, with tricky intersections and impatient drivers, in 90 degree heat and humidity. The hyper-vigilance and constant clipping/unclipping this required exhausted me. But just when I was starting to feel worn out, it was over and we were cycling on idyllic country roads. 

The interesting thing about a long distance ride is that it can go through personality changes. This was to be the first of many. As we headed North toward the New Hampshire border with the city behind us and the sun gently setting, I had the sensation of having broken free. The roads ahead were endless and beautiful. The ocean awaited. The temperature was dropping. The night's approach seemed like a friendly thing, not threatening. We were staying together as a group, and I felt good on the bike. Maybe I could do this after all.

Before I knew it, we were at mile 25 and approaching our first rest stop. At this stage I had just gotten warmed up and was feeling remarkably good. The cycling frog that greeted us seemed to be cheering me on. 

At this rest stop we visited Melinda - a well-known local randonneur - who would also be joining us from that point on. Here we were offered lemonade, bathroom facilities, and water for our bottles, before we promptly continued our journey.

It was around this time that the sun began to set. I turned on my lights and tried not to get nervous about the approaching hours of darkness. Soon after we set off, there was a natural split into a faster and a slower group and I stayed with the slower. There were three of us: myself, Brian and Somervillain. It was agreed that we'd cycle together at a pace comfortable to all and by no means leave anyone behind in the dark.

The next 30 miles were the part of the ride during which I felt most energetic and optimistic. The night came gradually and there was no distinct moment when the realisation of darkness hit me. Some roads had occasional street lights installed, others were pitch black. When we rode under overarching trees it was darker than when we rode under an unobstructed sky with the full moon. There was a lot of variety and not just a blanket, uniform darkness. All three of us had excellent lights, and riding in a cluster we had a cozy little oasis of light surrounding us. Descending in the darkness was a thrill. I conserved my energy and coasted a great deal downhill, and without the visual context it felt like falling. Climbing in the dark was a different kind of thrill, because often I would not see the hill coming but would all of the sudden feel it - having to downshift quickly. I have no idea why I enjoyed this, but I did; it became a sort of game.

As we approached the New Hampshire border around mile 50, I felt strong and elated from the newness of cycling in the dark. And as if to celebrate this, we were greeted with fireworks. I have never watched fireworks while cycling before, so this was quite an experience. Just as we made a brief stop to eat and check our equipment, the last burst of them lit up the sky and we managed to take some feeble snapshots with our camera phones. We then proceeded across the bridge to the New Hampshire Seacoast - briefly catching up with the faster group, which was now joined by one more cyclist - Hugh, and his beautiful Heron bike. Once in New Hampshire, the 5 of them surged ahead again as we maintained our tamer pace. In another 20 miles, we would meet up for dinner in Portsmouth. 

It is so odd how I can go from feeling great on a ride one moment, to not feeling as if I can continue the next. It happened around mile 65. We had just passed a precarious section of the New Hampshire Seacoast - Hampton Beach, with its rowdy drunk revelers and dense traffic - and were now continuing north through the gorgeous and quiet town of Rye. With the ocean on our right, saltwater marshes on our left and very few cars on the road, this was an idyllic stretch of the route. But suddenly - just as we were riding through the most scenic part - I felt a sharp pain in my lower back, like a strained muscle. This has never happened to me before, and I did not know what to make of it. So I ignored it at first, but it intensified to such an extent that I had to stop and stretch on the side of the road. When I got back on the bike it was fine at first, but just a couple of miles later the pain returned and became unbearable again. With just a few miles left before our dinner rest stop, I began to wonder whether I'd have to implement my emergency bail-out plan. This thought upset me, so I clenched my teeth and kept cycling, arriving at the Portsmouth Brewery around midnight and at mile 68, in terrible pain.

The faster group was already waiting for us, and they'd ordered plates heaping with nachos covered with vegetables and cheese, to which we gladly helped ourselves. 

I then snuck away to the ladies' room with some diaper rash cream in my pocket. Now that I was off the bike for a few minutes, I became aware that I had developed painful rashes everywhere. What I saw in the florescent bathroom light was worse than I'd imagined: The skin around my shins was broken where it came in contact with the edges of my socks. The skin around my calves was broken where it came in contact with the hems of my cycling knickers. My wrists, the skin around my collarbone, and other, less publicly visible areas, were suffering the same fate. A couple of fingers on my right hand were bleeding from rubbing against the brake hoods. I have very sensitive skin and it must have been unusually humid for this to happen. I applied diaper rash cream everywhere I could and wrapped my fingers in band-aids. Later I took an Advil while eating some more nachos. I also went outside and stretched, trying to understand what muscle I'd pulled to cause the kind of pain I had experienced for the previous several miles. Would it improve after some stretching or would it only get worse over time? 

At dinner we learned about the other group's adventures. Apparently Melinda's derailleur had developed a problem, so she removed it, making do with a single ring. Later more things would go wrong and she would end up finishing the ride in single speed mode. Nonetheless they were all in good spirits and Jon impressed us with his beer drinking ability.

Amidst the merriment I was trying to decide what my course of action should be. What bothered me about the idea of bailing, was that I wasn't even tired. My legs were fine, I could keep pedaling. My energy levels were far from depleted. I ate, I drank, I went at a moderate pace - I'd done everything right. Where was this weird back pain coming from? As I brooded over this, my cycling companions suggested an alternative scenario: As the slower group, we could alter the route slightly and make our trip an even century (160K). As it happened, there was another train station at exactly this distance, making it a perfect end-point for the ride. Brian was under the weather and not feeling strong enough to do the 200K route. Somervillain did not mind the shorter option either. And for me, this would mean cycling "only" another 30 or so miles. Frankly, at that stage I did not feel that I could ride another 5 miles, let alone 30. But somehow this plan nonetheless seemed perfect and I did not want to break up our nice trio.

In order for the milage to work, we edited the rest of the route to hug the coast the entire way. The original route involved a lengthy detour, because the main bridge connecting Portsmouth, NH to Kittery, ME (they are separated by a bay) was under construction. However, I happened to know that there was an alternative bridge allowing for the same coastal crossing. Though technically not open to cyclists, in reality it was perfectly cyclable and allowed us a scenic and direct coastal route all the way to the train station in Wells, Maine, without the inland detour. This would make our total trip an even 100 miles. We said our good-byes to the fast group and set off.

I led the way to the nuclear submarine, behind which the onramp to the bridge was hidden, and we crossed over to Maine without incident. The next 25 miles were a bit of a blur. My back pain kept returning. When it got to be too much, I'd ask to stop and stretch. I was also grateful that Brian asked to stop occasionally. Our progress through this section was slow and laborious. It was a gorgeous route and I tried to enjoy the beauty and the quiet despite my discomfort. 

The night was serene and welcoming. Rural Maine is spooky, but in a way I find to be almost seductive rather than outright scary. There were dilapidated farm houses, thick woods, endless marshes. We could smell the ocean on our right, but only barely see it, which added to the mystery. The full moon helped light the way.

We encountered almost no cars along this stretch, but we did encounter a bicycle policeman around York Beach, at what must have been 3 in the morning. I believe he asked about a lost boy or maybe a suspect in some misdemeanor. I wish I'd taken a picture of him, because now I am wondering whether I imagined this. Around 3 in the morning was also when I got quite sleepy and came close to hallucinating. A couple of times I thought Brian and Somervillain were taking to me, when they weren't. The road ahead got blurry. I saw things from the corner of my eye that weren't there. It was as if I was starting to dream while still awake and pedaling.

And then, just as suddenly, I felt alert and refreshed again. We were just pulling into the town of Ogunquit, with only 5 miles to the Wells train station from there. And all the sudden it felt like morning, even though it was still pitch black outside. We would definitely finish the 100 miles and we were having a good time.

Around 4am we began seeing food delivery trucks, joggers and dog walkers on the roads. Feeling a fresh surge of energy, we made the final miles to Wells, even circling around the train station a couple of times to make sure our ride was a full 100 miles. We checked our computers and saw that our average speed had been 13mph. 

We collapsed outside of the station doors, as it would not be open for at least another hour.

As the sun rose, the station opened. We then waited inside for the 6:30am train. The lady at the station was delighted to learn that we had cycled all night from Boston and were about to take the train back. 

On board the conductor allowed us to take our bikes right into the passenger's car. We sort of jammed them in between the seats. The train car was air conditioned and for the first time on this trip I felt cold. I was glad that this allowed me to make use of the jacket I'd packed. I put it on and promptly passed out in fetal position next to my bike. 

When I opened my eyes we were in Boston, and still half-awake I ushered my bike out of the train. We then took the commuter rail to Somerville (all three of us are practically neighbours) and I - just barely - rode the last mile home from the Porter Square T-station. Then I collapsed and did not wake up until 2pm. And then I took the longest bath ever. And I ate. And I ate some more. Cycling, eh?

To those of you still reading, I will say this: Randonneurs tend to downplay the difficulty of these rides, but since I am far from a real randonneur I can tell you the truth. Riding long distance is difficult; it is not all flowers and sea breezes and happy pedaling. It is difficult to cycle 100 miles with almost no breaks for the first 68 of those miles. It is difficult to ride all night without sleep. You might get tired. You might hurt in ways you did not even expect. You might feel miserable. So the question is, why do it? As I find myself longing for another ride, I wonder the same thing. For some it's an athlete's high, for others a sense of accomplishment. But I think for me it's more about the magical adventure - adventure that overrides the occasional pain and effort of it. I mean come on - riding my bike from Boston to Maine under a full moon? Beyond my wildest dreams, plain and simple. Thank you to everyone who supported me through this, you know who you are.

More pictures from the ride here. Yet more pictures from Somervillain here. And more still from JP Twins here and Jon here. Thank you for reading!

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Ye Olde Fantastic Bikeshoppe! A Visit to Portland Velocipede

[edited to add: Portland Velocipede became a sponsor of this website in January 2011. This post was written prior to that time.]

We were in Portland, Maine (the real Portland!) over the weekend, and stopped by the Portland Velocipede. The establishment is just half a year old, but already an iconic presence.

Portland Velocipede focuses exclusively on transportation cycling. They sell Pashley, Gazelle, Batavus, Abici, Linus, Civia, Brompton and Bakfiets - as well as accessories by Brooks, Velo Orange, Basil, Po Campo, Nutcase, and more. As far as I know, no other bike shop on the East coast outside of NYC stocks this type of merchandise all at once.

The shop occupies a huge, warehouse-style space that was once an art gallery, and they certainly make good use of that space. Almost an entire wing is dedicated to a flock of Pashleys. The Roadster, the Guv'nor, the Princess, and even the Tube Rider - they have them all.

In another part of the shop stands a herd of Gazelles, as well as several Batavus models (the Old Dutch, the Flyslan, the Bub and the Personal Delivery).

The famous "paperclip bike" (Batavus Bub), suspended from the ceiling.

For me, the main point of interest were the Abici bicycles, which I had never seen in person before. This shot reminds me of the "I want candy" scene in Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette. The colours, the colours! Well, I have now not only seen an Abici bicycle in person, but have ridden one all over Portland.  I will post a test ride report shortly.

I had also never seen a Bakfiets in person before. Those things are beautiful! The Co-Habitant immediately wanted to cart me around in one, but I opted out of that form of entertainment. (Well, maybe next time!)

Instead I examined the Gazelle Toer Populair, which is the contemporary version of my Gazelle A-Touren. It saddened me to see that the Gazelles currently in production are not manufactured in the same manner as my late 1990's model. The "loop connector" is now welded rather than lugged, and the seat cluster is partly welded as well.  It is still a beautiful bicycle, but why are manufacturers of classic bicycles moving in this direction? I suppose it cuts costs, and they figure customers will not notice or will not care? It is a sad thing to lose such beautiful details. Thankfully, the fork crown on the Gazelle is still lugged and chromed with the little embossed gazelles on it, and its lugwork elsewhere has remained the same as well.

Having now seen Gazelle, Batavus and Pashley side-by-side, I would say that the quality of craftsmanship is by far the highest on the Pashley, with Gazelle in second place and Batavus in third. If I had to buy a new bicycle today and choose from what is available in American shops, I would probably still choose a Pashley Princess (albeit I would now go for the largest, 22" frame).

Whether you turn your eye to the bicycles, to the accessories, or to the clothing, Portland Velocipede is a sea of gorgeous colours and inviting textures.

As I wandered around the shop I felt as if I was lost in some alternate universe: Too much, too beautiful! Some of the items I knew about, but have never seen in person - and now here they were, all together. Other items were new to me, such as the clothing line by Sheila Moon (pictured above), and a spectacular line of panniers from Linus. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to photograph it all systematically, but I am a mere mortal and cannot be expected to remain calm in this kind of bike shop - so this is what you get. As mentioned earlier, we did extensively test-ride bicycles: I rode a lilac Abici and the Co-Habitant rode a Pashley Guv'nor, so reports are forthcoming.

Amazingly, the charming owners (Gillian and Josh) trusted us not to abscond with their precious candy-coloured inventory - for which we thank them!  We also thank them for establishing this wonderful shop in New England, and for all the energy and care they obviously put into it. Portland Velocipede is a magical place and an invaluable resource for those interested in classic transportation bicycles. 

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Computer Games

I have never liked computer games, but with the influence of the Co-Habitant I am finally starting to get into them.

Here he is, taking a break after a particularly heated round.

What you need to play: an open road and a fast bicycle. Challenging hills can be introduced after you pass Level 1. Oh yes, and of course you'll need a computer.

After I mocked the Co-Habitant for putting one of these on his own bike, he decided that I was just jealous and got me one for Graham (my Rivendell Sam Hillborne). I reluctantly agreed to try it, and quickly grew to love it - much to my dismay, as there is really no attractive way to attach these things to a bike.

For those not familiar with it, a bicycle computer is basically a speedometer with some extra features. Mine tells me: distance covered during a trip, current speed, maximum speed during a trip, average speed, and total distance covered so far (since installing the computer). There is also a clock, which is handy since I don't wear a watch and extracting my mobile phone requires stopping the bike. If you are training yourself for touring, the bicycle computer helps you measure your progress in terms of how fast you are able to cycle. Keeping track of the distance you have covered is also useful. My top speed so far is 27.4 mph (44.1 km/h), which I reached the other day on the hills in Maine. I know that to the roadies out there, this is far from impressive. But for me, it was shocking to learn that I was capable of cycling this fast. 27.4 mph is of course a downhill speed, but on flattish ground I was consistently cycling at 16-19 mph.

The Co-Habitant is faster, so I guess he won the computer games - and probably will continue to win for a while. But who knows, maybe someday I will catch up.

The main thing that makes me lose speed, is fiddling around with my shifters. I don't shift gears on my usual rides outside Boston, so whenever we go to an area with real hills it takes me a while just to get comfortable with shifting. The Co-Habitant thinks that my friction shifters are an affectation, and if I got "brifters" (brake levers that contain indexed shifters within them) it would solve all of my problems. I feel attached to my wonderful silver bar-end shifters, but I do see his point.

For those interested in touring or in cycling for sport, the bicycle computer can be useful and fun. But beware: Once you have one, it can also get addictive! I know some people who have one on every single bicycle they own and are incapable of cycling without knowing their exact speed or distance covered.  I am not likely to suffer this fate, but I am glad to have a computer on Graham.  And a question for the randonneurs and roadies out there: What speed should I be working toward for touring and for club rides? It would be great to know where I stand.

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Rediscovering Familiar Places... and the Hills You Never Knew Were There

Yesterday was a special occasion for us, and we wanted to do something special to celebrate. We decided to visit an area of Seacoast New Hampshire and Southern Maine where we used to live a few years back - but for the first time, get around entirely on our bicycles.

We began by driving to Portsmouth, NH - which is only an hour North of Boston. We parked in a municipal lot, unfastened the bicycles, and set off. Portsmouth itself is a fantastic town and is very easy to cycle in, but our destination was Maine - which is accessible via a very cool truss lift bridge.

We had to wait for some ships to pass underneath, but they soon lowered the bridge and we walked our bicycles across.

The views from this bridge are amazing, and we even spotted a boat with some bicycles strapped to it.

The Co-Habitant's Myles.

And my Marianne, enjoying the view. I took the vintage mixte, because I wanted to be more upright than on my roadbike - so as to have a better view of the scenery and to carry a camera across my back. All of that I did, but at the expense of both comfort and speed: Despite her beauty, this bicycle is just not as pleasant to ride as the Rivendell Sam Hillborne, and without drop bars it is also not as fast. In fact, now that I am finally building up my custom new mixte, we have plans for Marianne that will rescue her from redundancy - but I will save that for later.

And here we are, in Kittery Maine. This was the first time we crossed a state line on bicycle.

I like to think that I know coastal Southern Maine like the back of my hand. And if you were to ask me, "Is it hilly?", a few days ago I would have answered "not at all" - and I would have been so wrong! It is amazing how we are just not as aware of topography in a car as we are on a bicycle.

We have a favourite road in this area that is an off-shoot of Route 1A and offers spectacular views of the coastline, and I simply do not remember this road having hills. But on my 12-speed Motobecane mixte, I was soon switching gears all over the place as I tried to keep up with the frequent and considerable changes in elevation.

Still, it was so worth it and our trip was spectacular; I would most definitely recommend Southern Maine for touring. The traffic on the roads was much lighter than we expected, and cycling was considerably more peaceful than in the countryside around Boston. There are many non-touristy spots in the Kittery, York, and Ogunquit areas where the beaches are pristine, the restaurants are inexpensive, and the landscape is not cluttered with "motel sprawl".

Steamers, caught on the property of the restaurant that serves them. When it comes to seafood in Maine, there is so much choice that you really need to know where to go, so it helps having once been a local. Our favourite place was right along our route, and we happily stopped by after all those lovely hills.

All in all, this was probably the nicest cycling trip we have taken so far. Next time we will figure out how to plan it so that we can keep going further North before turning back - maybe stay in a motel somewhere overnight. One of our favourite places on Earth has become even "favouriter", once traveled by bicycle.

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