A Moveable View

Staying by the sea, I notice how unaccustomed I've become to a stationary view of any kind. Back in the city, the windows of my apartment offer vistas of a brick wall, a narrow alley, a tangle of branches and telephone wires. And I usually keep the blinds closed when I work anyhow; there is too much commotion outside.

But now I sit on this porch, just yards from the water's edge. A vast harbor is stretched out in front of me. The surface ripples of the cerulean water are like a silk scarf fluttering in the wind. Lobster buoys bob up and down. Now and then a fishing boat goes by. A family of swans travels back and forth along the shore in perfect peloton formation.

It is peaceful and almost improbably beautiful. And as I try to work, I find that it drives me nuts - the unchangeability of it. I am not used to looking at scenery so... passively. My eyes focus on the right outer edge of the harbor, where the rocky shore curves and disappears from view. As I study it, the curve begins to look hard-etched and forbidding, willfully preventing me from seeing beyond the bend.

In fact, I know - roughly at least - what lies around the bend; I have been there many times. A hilly back road winds along the shore's edge sleepily. There is a small patch of dense woods along the cliffs, then a gravel garden path, a wild rocky beach, an abandoned coast guard's tower... Soon I am visualising each of these landmarks in great detail, picturing them as they look when I cycle past them. I laugh at myself, realising that I am enjoying this mental game more than looking at the view in front of me.

I close my laptop, get on my bike and take off just as the sun begins to set, heading for the hilly back road that will take me around the bend. No one else is here. The road narrows and steepens dramatically and I get into my lowest gear. With each pedal stroke I see more and more of the landscape that was hidden from view as I sat on the porch just minutes earlier, and this fills me with an absurd sense of fulfillment. I reach the top easily, unhurriedly, and there sits the patch of woods with its narrow mossy path to the edge of the cliff. I keep going, coasting down the steep hill now at what feels like flying speed, passing all the landmarks I'd recalled. The mysterious garden path, the wild beach. And I remember now also the old sprawling house with a beautiful garden and the "bunnies for sale" sign taped to the green fence. After the coastguard's house I stop and turn around, my urge to experience a movable view satisfied. It seems silly now to have taken this short ride for no reason at all, but I am pleased.

I roll up to the porch as the last of daylight disappears. The vast harbor is still there, its fluttering silk surface now a deep indigo. A green light flickers in the distance. A stray boat is being rowed ashore. The swan peloton is making its last round. I get my coffee cup and turn on the porch light, ready to settle down in the stillness. But I know the moveable view will call out to me again tomorrow, even though I know what's around the bend.

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New England Coastal Town X

New England Coastal Town X. You know the one. Narrow streets, saltwater marshes, dog-rose bushes. Windswept rocky beaches, icy currents. The natives distinguished from the tourists by their accents, the age of their boat shoes, and their ability to go in the water (watah) without flinching. Dilapidating beachfront properties, clung to for generations before ultimately being sold because money's run out or the siblings can't decide who keeps the house.

The developers from the City are good guys, thank God, not at all like those soulless predators who would have entire blocks of historical properties bulldozed for condos. Worshipful of the town's character, they only want to update, to improve. They landscape with native plant life (they've researched this; it looks natural and wild yet subtly colour-coordinated). Gingerly and respectfully they extract Jesus and Mary statues from front yards. They remove asbestos, replace yellowed wallpaper, tear down drop ceilings to expose natural beams, liberate hardwood floors. They gut those claustrophobic interiors with their myriads of tiny rooms to create an open concept layout. They install granite kitchen counters, stainless steel appliances, add extra bathrooms (really, a 6-bedroom house with 1 bath?...).

The updated properties are resold at prices that reflect the quality of labour, the professionalism of the interior design and the local sourcing of materials. They are bought by urban escapees. Eager to live in the quaint town for a fraction of the cost of their cramped city apartment, they long to improve their quality of life with fresh air and natural beauty and a sense of community. But the economy is terrible, and their ideas of local employment opportunities prove over-optimistic. Two years later they return to the City, keeping the property as a summer house and income-generating vacation rental.

A tiny commercial street runs through a narrow peninsula. It is home to 6 ice cream shops and 5 seafood restaurants, every single one of them with water views. The seafood is freshly caught, the ice cream home made. "There's a line, but it's worth it." A woman wearing a white beach dress and straw hat asks the high school girl behind the counter if the scallops are good. Unthinkingly the girl answers that she hates seafood, then laughs apologetically and promises they are excellent. The woman asks the girl where she is from. She replies that she lives down the road, pointing in the direction. The woman is ecstatic as she carries her food away to the outdoor seating area. She tells her husband about the exchange. "You know they're locals if they hate seafood!"

Around the corner is a string of cozy little shops selling locally made jewelry, fair trade clothing from South America, organic hand lotions, antique furniture, used books. The local Art Association operates a Co-Op. Paintings, ceramics, woodblock prints. A hand-holding couple discusses purchasing an abstract seascape. "I want the lighthouse to be recognisable without the whole thing being cheesy, you know?" They study several pieces that meet these criteria, tilting their heads.

There is a yoga studio, a book club, a historical society, a concert hall, a market stall selling fresh produce thrice a week on the Green. Artist residencies are held on a bi-monthly basis. There is a mannerism and style of dress that distinguishes the seasonals from the more casual vacationers and day trippers, establishing a hierarchy of sorts.

And then there are the locals, that elusive species. They work the counters, staff the hotels, rent out the boats. But mostly, those who remain are like ghosts. Sometimes you hear the accents at the beach, or a voice calling a child in "for suppah" from an open window.

New England Coastal Town X. I've lived in one and I've visited many, and now here I am again. Memories blend with images glimpsed from afar as I ride my bike past the rocky beaches, charming shops and impeccably renovated properties.

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Unexpected Interludes

Back in the city now from our stay on the shore, I am looking back in bemusement at what had been intended as a bicycling-heavy trip, but turned out to be anything but.

It did rain a great deal. But even when the weather was good, we hardly did any substantial cycling. In fact, we probably cycled less during this trip than at any other point since winter ended. Like everyone else who rides a bicycle, I go through periods when my enthusiasm for it waxes and wanes. But this was probably the strongest and most unexpected case of the latter I have experienced since I started this blog. Why?..

On a superficial level it was really very simple: I lost interest in cycling when I discovered that the water was warm enough to swim. You see, I love swimming in the ocean but can't tolerate hot climates, so my options are severely limited and I've been swim-starved for years. In Northern New England the water is too icy, but in Southern New England (let alone popular vacation spots such as Florida) the weather is already too hot and humid for me. It is as if there is an imaginary line somewhere along the MA/RI border where the climate and the water temperature undergo a dramatic change and what I really need is a place that is north of that imaginary line as far as climate goes, but south of it in terms of water temperature. And unexpectedly, I found such a place in Rockport, MA. Despite it being August, it was never above the low 80s, and dipped as low as the 60s on cooler days. Yet, the water remained swimmable the entire time and I found myself perfectly content to spend my waking hours at the beach: swim, read, eat, repeat. I cannot remember the last time I've been able to do anything like this!

I also must admit that we did not enjoy cycling here as much as we hoped during the few times we did it. Going north to Ipswich and beyond, water views were limited, car traffic was pretty heavy and there was not a whole lot of shade. We know from experience that once you get up the coast to New Hampshire and Maine it gets better, but we never made it that far. Truthfully, cycling "at home" - along the tree-lined, quiet country roads Northwest of Boston - is, on the whole, considerably more enjoyable.

So at some point we decided to just let it go and accept that there wasn't going to be a whole lot of cycling during this trip.

We used the bikes for transportation when necessary, but gave up even trying to go on "real" rides after the first week.

By the time we loaded up the bikes again to head back, I felt as if I'd gotten completely unaccustomed to it and the weight of our luggage was challenging. There are many short, but steep hills en route from the place where we stayed to the train station, and the bike fishtailed wildly every time I attempted to feather the brakes on a downhill. Given the huge amount of Saturday tourist traffic and the narrowness of the road, this made me so nervous that I was shaking and covered in sweat by the time we got on the train. Ironically, the final leg of the trip home - from the train station in the center of Boston to our house on the outskirts - was less stressful, but by the time we got home I was completely drained and did not want to look at another 100 lb luggage-laden bike again for a long, long time.

24 hours later, I still can't shake that feeling - a feeling that somehow morphed from that of being tired of just the trip home, to being tired of cycling in general. Maybe the hot, dusty, overloaded final ride was just a particularly cruel contrast to the cool, light feeling of being on the beach - swimming so far out from shore as to be surrounded by complete silence, submerged in the blissfully perfect temperature of Rockport's water. Also, maybe having taken a step back from cycling has made me realise that I've been neglecting other activities that I used to love - still love, in fact, but just don't get a chance to do. Maybe I ought to try harder to find time for them. Take swimming for instance: After all, Rockport is just a commuter rail's ride away and I can take one of my upright transportation bikes on the train, and... Ah, there. I guess I am still thinking of everything in terms of bikes, and there is really no danger of Lovely Bicycle abruptly ending as I run off to spend all of my time on the beach. Everyone needs an interlude, but cycling is such an inherent part of me now that I can hardly imagine life without it, at least in some form.

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The Bike Aquatic

Our latest trip along the coast was of the epically off-road variety.

Behold the single speed aquatic tandem recumbent, a.k.a. pedal boat! Isn't she a beauty? When I was growing up, we used to pedal these things around small lakes, but I had no idea they could be taken out into the ocean. Turns out there is a whole culture out there of self-propelled ocean travel, including transatlantic voyages. The boats used for those are a tad more sophisticated, but this one is just fine for pedaling leisurely along the coast.

The local rental place assured us that these boats are marvelously stable and virtually impossible to flip over. We experimented, and are pleased to confirm this. Very safe and reliable, even in turbulent water.

Operating the pedal boat was much more effortful than we expected! Ocean water is rougher than lake water, and pedaling this thing felt like riding a single speed bicycle that is geared way too high.

Feeling as if we were treading through thick mud as we rode the waves and tried to stay on course, we soon longed for gears and foot retention. At least the adjustable seats allowed for full leg extension.

Despite our slow progress along the coast, the whole thing was ridiculously fun. It took me some time just to calm down from the excitement of being out in the ocean on a pedal boat.

We went as far out as we dared, pedaling among the sailboats and lobster boats and imagining what it would be like to cross the Atlantic on one of these things.

We pedaled into some of the tiny harbors and beaches that line this part of the coast and took photos from angles that would have been impossible from the shore. We docked outside a cafe and I jumped out to buy us some coffee - just for the fun of having done this. And for the first time in maybe 10 years I wore boat shoes on an actual boat.

We are both pretty comfortable in the water, and at some point we took turns swimming next to the boat. I wish I had the nerve to do this way out in the ocean - but after having seen sharks on Cape Cod for the past two summers I am cautious about that stuff, so this was fairly close to shore.

After three hours we returned the boat, utterly exhausted. Pedaling it felt very much like cycling - though so strenuous that you'd have to be in pretty good shape to do any serious touring along the coast. I cannot help now but wonder what the "serious" pedal boats feel like to operate - I imagine not very different from a recumbent bicycle, not that I have any experience with those either. I am happy to have found a way to combine my love of the ocean with cycling. Pedal boat, we will meet again!

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Saltwater and Rust

Both this summer and in previous years we've brought our bikes to the coast, we've noticed rust forming alarmingly quickly - even with the bicycles kept indoors. The chain is usually the first to rust, with the various bolts that hold components together shortly following suit. Even hardy powdercoated frames are not immune to this: We noticed rust spots on the Co-Habitant's pale blue Surly at the end of our first week here. I am curious how those who live next to salt water year-round take care of their bicycles. If the rate of rust formation we are seeing is any indication, it seems that bikes kept near salt water are liable to become rust buckets in no time.

On the other hand, I recall that my parents - who live around the corner from a marina - have always kept bikes in the garage, which was left open more often than not. These included my old mountain bike - which was stored in this manner for 15 years before I retrieved it, and the vintage Raleigh we later restored - which must have been kept there for over 20 years. Neither of these bikes show any more rust than is typical for their age. Could it be that bicycles were somehow rust-proofed in the past, and that this is no longer done? Or does rust formation slow down after an initially vigorous attack? Insights from coastal dwellers appreciated!

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Within My Grasp, Yet Out of Reach: the Evasive Century Ride

Once a cyclist begins to ride longer distances, it is inevitable that they will hear the siren call of the Century - the 100 mile ride. While 100 miles is as arbitrary a number as any, it has an undeniable cachet to it. It is a three digit number, a round number, and impressive number. Put simply, 100 miles is unambiguously "a lot." It is often considered a marker of seriousness when it comes to long-distance cycling.

Although I never set it as a goal for myself to complete a century, to tell the truth I thought that surely I would have done it by now. Distances of 30, 40 and 50 miles were so easy for me almost from the start, that I assumed 100 miles would inevitably follow. However, it is now my 3rd summer of cycling and somehow I still have not managed it - 65 miles being the longest distance I've covered so far in one go. One obstacle has been lack of time. As someone who gets annoyed when others tell me they don't have time to cycle, I can't believe I am using the same excuse. So maybe I should rephrase: My time management skills have been inadequate. I try to set a day aside for a century ride, but something inevitably comes up to make it impossible. Shorter rides are easier in that sense, because they do not require taking an entire day off. The other obstacle has been finding places to ride to. While the countryside outside Boston offers excellent cycling, I am having a hard time mapping out routes that exceed 65 miles and are still within my comfort zone when it comes to car traffic and elevation changes. And doing repeat loops just to cycle 100 miles is not appealing.

While on Cape Cod last summer, I thought that surely a century would finally be completed. Our plan was to gradually work up to it, but in the end we did it too gradually: Just after the 65 mile ride I got sick, and by the time I felt better it was time to go home. This summer, the inability to reach the 100 mile mark is becoming almost comical. Now that we are on Cape Ann - with both the time to do it and the perfect location - weather and other factors have intervened to foil our plans repeatedly. 50 miles along the coast has been the longest we have managed so far, and with half our stay over and more storms predicted for this week, it's possible that a century is simply not in the cards during this trip either.

It is becoming clear that, while I am accustomed to fitting rides into my life "organically," the century may necessitate a different approach. If I am serious, then I will need more careful planning, stronger determination, and a willingness to do it in poor weather conditions or along a route that I am not entirely comfortable with. But frankly, that just doesn't seem like much fun. When I finally find the time to do a 100 mile ride on my terms, it will be fantastic. But to approach it as a grimly goal-oriented undertaking for the sake of saying that I've done a century would defeat the purpose. As far as endurance goes, I am fairly confident that I can handle the mileage, so it's just a matter of an opportune situation presenting itself. I am sure someday it will.

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Traveling by Bike

As you may have noticed, we are staying on the coast for a little while - our annual working vacation. This is something we've been doing at the end of every summer for the past six years. When we lived further North, we used to go to a place in Maine, and after moving to Boston we began staying on Cape Cod. I've been writing about that for the past two summers, and it's funny how over time our trips became increasingly bicycle-oriented. Two years ago we went by car as usual, but for the first time took bikes and cycled around a bit during our stay. Last summer we arrived by car again, but got around entirely by bicycle once there and attempted some high mileage day-trips. This summer we no longer have a car and really did not want to rent one just for the trip. So after discovering that Cape Ann was accessible by commuter rail, we decided to come here instead and do the whole trip on bikes. Another reason for choosing Cape Ann, is that it is a popular starting point for long rides up the coast of Northern New England. There are no decent routes north directly out of Boston, and what cyclists often do is take the commuter rail up here before proceeding north. So that was the plan: To arrive on our bicycles, to get around by bike, and to cycle up the coast as far and as often as possible in the course of our stay.

Our main challenge was figuring out how to transport our belongings. This is not a bicycle-specific trip, so we needed more than a change of cycling clothing and rain gear. We are living here for two weeks and doing all the same things we do at home - including work-related stuff. We needed our regular clothing and footwear, personal hygiene products, bedding, towels, laptops, a variety of electronic devises, some necessary books and documents, and our camera equipment - in addition to the cycling clothing, tool kits and raingear. And all of that we fit into the luggage you see here.

For a number of logistical reasons, we decided the most practical course of action would be to turn one person into the pack mule - and since I already had a front rack and a large handlebar bag on my bike, it made sense that this would be me. I had planned to eventually get a touring-specific rear rack for my Rivendell anyway, and so that is what I did. Between the two of us, we packed a total of five bags for the trip - four on my bike and one on the Co-Habitant's.

The rear rack on my bike is a Nitto Campee with removable lowrider panels, to which we attached a set of Carradice panniers, while using the rack's platform to support a Sackville SaddleSack. These bags plus the Carradice saddlebag on the Co-Habitant's Surly contained our clothing, bedding and laptops. My Ostrich handlebar bag contained camera equipment, electronics and various other miscellaneous items. Everything was packed very tightly, and I estimate that my bicycle weighed around 100 lb when all was said and done.

The ride to the train station from our house is 4 miles through some of the busiest parts of the city. I have never ridden with my bike loaded up like this before, and the prospect of trying it for the first time in Boston traffic was nerve-wrecking. Overall, the bicycle handled fine. Once it got going, I could not feel the weight at all, and the heavy handlebar bag did not affect steering. But at very slow speeds - especially when starting and stopping - there was a fishtailing effect in the rear that took some getting used to. Also, with so much weight on the bike, the brakes were less effective than usual, which I had to keep in mind when stopping on a downhill. The frame itself had an interesting feel to it  - as if it was "yielding" to the weight (mildly flexing?). The resulting ride quality was in some ways nicer than with the bicycle unloaded. Having survived this ride in traffic, loaded touring on the open road does not seem in the least daunting. Going slower than usual is, of course, a given - but the reduction in speed was not as drastic as I thought it might be. Even cycling uphill (which I got to experience once we arrived to Cape Ann and rode from the train station to the place we are staying!) was not as difficult as I expected. Thanks to a helpful reader after my description of our previous commuter rail experience, we were able to board the elusive bike train, which made the trip more pleasant still.

Once we arrived and settled in, we removed the lowrider panels from the rear rack, transforming my bike from a full-on pack-mule into a lighter ride that could still carry food and equipment when necessary. I will write more about this particular rear rack in a separate post; it is pretty neat and versatile.

The place where we are staying is somewhere between a cabin and a shack on the architectural spectrum and is the size of a small garage. It is situated on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean, and there is a beach down the road. Despite the stormy weather, we love being here - just the two of us and our bikes. Yesterday the sun finally came out and we did a 50 mile "warm-up" ride, hoping for more soon. And it feels great that we were able to drag all of our stuff up here without needing a car. It was important to us that this did not feel like a compromise compared to the previous times we've gone away, and it most definitely does not. We were able to fit everything we need into our bicycle bags, and not having to deal with a car here feels extremely relaxing. I highly recommend giving traveling by bicycle a try!

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Wool for Swimming?

We are staying on the North Shore for a while, and the weather is unbelievable. Yesterday began with a thick, frigid fog, giving way to blinding sunshine and oppressive heat, followed by a sudden darkening of the skies and a mini-redux of the previous day's violent downpour with a temperature drop of at least 20F - all in rapid succession and repeated every several hours. It was as hilarious as it was frustrating, as we kept scrambling to start one thing after another, only for our plans to be thwarted by the elements. Food was rained on, warm clothing was shed no sooner than it was donned, camera equipment was hastily put away no sooner than it was set up, several pairs of shoes now needed drying, and my hair was a hopeless rat's nest of a mess. Others might have given up at this point, resigned to spend the day under a blanket with a bottle of rum. But we are stubborn - and also perversely delighted by the irony of finally being able to get away in August like normal people (instead of September as in previous years), only to be greeted by Autumnal weather as usual. Maybe freezing, stormy holidays are just "us" and we shouldn't fight it. Also, the closest town is a dry town (!) and there is no rum.

Anyhow, just when I thought the day was shot, something wonderful happened: I went swimming in the ocean. Not the type of tentative Northern New England "swimming" where you stoically spend five minutes in the water before your limbs start to go numb. No, I swam with abandon in the warmest salt water I've experienced around these parts. After yet another storm, the sun came out again at about 5pm and we happened to be near a beach. I took my shoes off to walk in the shallow water, and was taken aback when it did not feel like ice.  I waded further in and it just kept getting warmer and warmer. Maybe the storm brought forth some rare tropical current? Just an hour earlier it had been cold out and I was wearing layers upon layers of wool, including Ibex long-johns and an I/O Bio Merino sportsbra. Deciding that these were decent enough to pass for swimwear, I removed everything else, went right in the water and swam until the late afternoon sun lost its warmth.

While I'd thought my improvised wool swimsuit would be bulky and uncomfortable, it turned out to be anything but. The fabric clung to my body as well as my synthetic swimsuits and kept me warm not only in the water, but also once I got out and air-dried without a towel in the cooling evening air. Pretty amazing. I liked it so much compared to wearing my normal bathing suit, that I think I'll just keep wearing this if I ever get a chance to swim here again. The beaches are not especially glamorous around these parts, so I don't think anyone cares. But this makes me wonder whether anybody actually makes contemporary wool bathing suits. I don't mean nostalgic/retro 1920's style garments, but a normal, "athletic coverage" type of swimsuit that's a mix of wool and spandex. A preliminary search has not yielded anything promising (though the Ibex website shows young ladies frolicking on a boat in their wool underwear), but I will keep looking. Has anybody else tried swimming in wool?

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Cycling in a Coastal Downpour

On the second morning of our trip I awoke to the sound of vigorous drums, which I soon realised was pelting rain. Outside, the line between sky and ocean was blurred and the patch of rocky beach we occupied was flooded. Inside, everything was damp from humidity - our clothing, the bedding, our faces. We had known that the forecast promised intermittent rain, so this was not a surprise and we didn't despair. We were not planning to cycle every day; we had loads of other things to do. We would see.

But as we drank coffee, the rain appeared to let up. Things were looking good - picturesquely stormy, but calm. It looked as if the downpour had exhausted itself in the course of the night and we decided to set off on our bikes after all, going along the coast for a manageable distance.

The ride started out fine. We made our way up a winding hill, past ominously abandoned beaches. Moody skies hung low over a dark gray ocean. The empty roads were promising. There was only a mild drizzle and we agreed that if things stayed like this, it would be even better than sunny weather - cooler, and less crowded. After cycling for a bit it grew humid and I removed my rain jacket, stashing it inside the handlebar bag. Two minutes later, the skies opened up. There was no build-up; it was as if someone opened a floodgate.

Instead of turning back we persisted, hoping the rain would eventually ease up again. But it only intensified. The amount of water was unbelievable, even compared to the many other times I've cycled in the rain. Visibility became non-existent, with everything turning gray and liquidy. The roads became flooded and soon I was cycling with my wheels partly submerged in water. Roads are terrible in this area, and even on a dry day it is a task to navigate around potholes. Now that they were invisible underwater, I could neither anticipate nor avoid them. My bike bounced violently over ditches at high speeds. This felt distinctly unsafe, especially on curvy descents. On a bike with narrow tires, the ride would have been simply impossible for me.

The coastal road was narrow and winding. As I tried to maintain a consistent line of travel, motorists sped past us, well over the posted speed limit, sending sprays of yet more water in our direction. I had my lights on and could only hope I was visible to them. My jersey - which had started out a bright crimson - was now a dark, dull brown. There are a few tricky spots on this route, where several roads merge on a twisty downhill - so that one must resist picking up speed and be prepared to brake instead. At these instances it became frighteningly apparent that my brakes did not work well under such conditions. I suspended disbelief and did my best, feathering the brakes and trying not to have a panic attack. Climbing up a flooded road while bouncing over potholes was horrifying as well.

Despite my best efforts I found this type of cycling too stressful to enjoy. I couldn't see where I was going, let alone anything resembling scenery, and frankly I had nothing to prove. This was meant to be a pleasant trip and not an endurance contest. I signaled to the Co-Habitant that I wanted to turn around, and we did - making our way back through the unrelenting downpour the same way we came. Before returning home, we took a detour and stopped at a hardware store to pick up oil for the bikes - later spending a great deal of time wiping sand and debris off of them and treating the components to prevent rust - which can form alarmingly quickly in a coastal environment. My wool cycling clothing took a day to air-dry, and my shoes are still soaking wet.

Though I know others enjoy the challenge of riding in this kind of weather, this is not an experience I care to repeat unless absolutely necessary. It is one thing to cycle in the rain, but a trip along the coast in a continuous and forceful downpour - with the roads flooded, visibility poor, and the wind assaulting my face, body and bike with sandy salt water - is not something I can justify, both in terms of safety and in terms of its detrimental effect on equipment. Hopefully there will be better weather ahead... though the forecast remains ominous!

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This Is the Day...

We've been talking about doing something like this for a while, and now we finally are! Didn't want to write about it earlier lest I jinx it; details to follow. Have a good weekend!

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Talk to Me About 'Off Road'...

Almost every cyclist I'm friendly with loves to ride off road. And when I admit that I don't love it so much, the reaction is that of dismay. "What? But you like Rivendell! But you write about randonneuring! But you showed so much promise cycling on those scenic beach trails!" Well yes... And yet I prefer pavement.

Of course, everyone has their own ideas of what "off road" is. For some, anything that's not paved qualifies. For others, only the really treacherous, narrow trails are worthy of the label. I tend to use the former definition, but often get corrected ("Oh, well that's not off road; that's just dirt roads!") - which of course only makes me feel more of a sissy. I can handle fire trails if they are packed dirt with occasional pebbles and roots, but I draw the line at loose gravel that slips out from under my tires, and trails fraught with large rocks and ditches that I need to navigate around at speed. It feels unsafe, and when I feel unsafe no amount of romantic photos or assurances that "it'll be fine!" from ride companions can induce me to go on. Maybe it'll be fine for them, but I need to think for myself and my brain screams "don't do it; you'll perish!"

But maybe I exaggerate. When we were in Rockport last weekend, the Co-Habitant lured me onto some trails ("we'll walk our bikes to the water") and I ended up riding on 23mm tires over dirt and gravel.  I've also found myself intentionally taking my bikes on unpaved parts of local trails lately, maybe to test the waters.

As August approaches, people are talking about the D2R2 (Deerfield Dirt-Road Randonnée) - a notoriously hilly, strenuous ride through Western Massachusetts and Vermont, held entirely on winding dirt roads. I considered trying to do the "easy" (40 mile) route, but based on the stories I hear even that might be out of my league. It would be good to read a ride report from someone whose comfort zone is similar to mine, to get an accurate idea of what it is really like.

But wait a minute, why would I even want to go to something like the D2R2 if I don't enjoy cycling off road? Maybe because I want to like it, or keep hoping that I'll like it if I just give it another chance. There is so much beauty that can't be seen from paved roads, and it's a shame to miss it. Now if only I could learn to climb and descend on loose gravel without panicking and getting off my bike immediately!

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Bikes, Trains, Sailboats

After months of deliberation and procrastination, we've finally done it: Traveled by train with our bikes. For a while now we have wanted to cycle around Cape Ann, which is a beautiful area about 40 miles North of Boston - accessible by the MBTA Commuter Rail via the Rockport line. A number of people we know have taken this trip with their bikes, so it seemed doable. Also, I was delighted to spot the following notice on the MBTA website: "Commuter Rail re-introduces The Bike Coach on the Rockport line for the summer season." Bike coach! No other information was provided, so I did some research. Turns out they have commuter trains with special cars dedicated entirely to bikes - with bike racks as far as the eye can see, like this. But I could not find any information regarding its schedule, and it seemed that only some weekend trains were Bike Coach trains. A call to the MBTA was fruitless, so we decided to just show up and hope for the best.

The commuter train to Cape Ann leaves from North Station, a 3.25 mile bike ride from our house through some of the busiest parts of Boston. I don't like cycling through the city on a roadbike, but on a Saturday morning the traffic wasn't bad. We arrived early, which was good as there was a line at the ticket machines. There were plenty of other people with bicycles. When our train arrived, the conductor came out and announced that all those with bikes must proceed to the first car of the train. Only those with bikes were allowed in that car. Only those without bikes were allowed in the other cars. The segregation gave us hope that this was the fabled Bike Coach, and we happily headed for the front car along with the procession of other cyclists. 

What happened next was rather stunning. The car we were ushered into had no accommodations for bikes what so ever - just a small corner of space at one end where a couple of handicapped seats had been removed. This was definitely not the Bike Coach. Nonetheless, everybody proceeded to drag their bikes on the train - more and more of them, until not only this corner, but the entire aisle was filled with bikes. When even that space ran out, new passengers began to pile their bikes on top of other bikes. Loud clunking noises filled the train as tubes smashed against derailleurs. 

Not wanting our bikes damaged in the velo moshpit that ensued, we found a seat near the exit and sort of held our bikes on our laps the entire time. As you might imagine, it was uncomfortable to sit that way for an hour. But the alternative was to accept that a dozen 50lb mountain bikes would be thrown on top of our bicycles - which was not a viable option. So we tried to have a sense of humour about the whole thing and looked forward to reaching our destination while seriously discussing the possibility of Bromptons in the future. 

But no sooner had we reached Rockport than the train trauma was forgotten, as we were greeted with perfect weather and glorious coastal views. 

The Cape Ann peninsula consists of Rockport, Annisquam Village and Gloucester - each of them with beautiful scenery. Severed from the mainland by the winding Annisquam River, water views are everywhere. This was our first time in the area and we decided to do an exploratory loop along the coastline instead of a long-distance trip. The Cape Ann loop is about 20 miles, with mild but constant rolling hills, alternating between open water views and tree lined country roads. Especially considering the 4th of July weekend, the area was not crowded. Drivers were courteous everywhere except for the traffic circle in Gloucester, but even that was not too bad. Roads were good on the eastern side of the cape, but terrible on the western side. Navigation was intuitive - just follow the coastline! 

My Rivendell is in the midst of a small (but exciting) make-over, so I took the loaner Seven on this trip. Overall it was pretty good, though a burlier bike might have been a better choice on the pothole-ridden roads. We also ventured off road a bit, which was "interesting" on 23mm racing tires!

Cape Ann is even quieter and less commercially developed than we expected, a pleasant surprise. Lots of parks, meadows and nature reserves. Not too many parking lots. And "motel sprawl" is virtually non-existant - at least compared to places like Cape Cod, the NH Seacoast, and much of coastal Maine. 

Also, there are apparently sailboat races happening in Rockport - wonderful!

All in all, we loved the area and are now considering staying there for longer, instead of venturing further from home on vacation later this summer. After all - just load up our bikes on the commuter rail, it's so easy! Of course we'd forgotten about our train experience earlier that day. Or at least, we thought, there would surely not be as many bikes on the return trip. Or maybe we would finally get the mythical Bike Coach?

Nope, no such luck. On the return trip, passengers were once again segregated into those with bikes and those without, and this time the "bike car" had a car rack attached in the handicapped seating area. It accommodated 4-5 bikes, tightly squeezed, and was filled as soon as the train began to board.

Minutes later, that pathetic little bike rack was surrounded by dozens of other bikes, stacked and thrown against one another haphazardly. 

Exits were blocked, aisles were blocked - no one seemed to care. When passengers with bikes needed to get on or off, they would simply throw the other bikes out of the way and the whole thing was like one huge pile of scrap metal. So we held our bikes on our laps again - hugging them ever closer to our bodies as other passengers kept trying to pile their bikes on top of ours (yes, even while we were holding our bikes on our laps!). It was a madhouse and probably violated all sorts of safety regulations. The MBTA clearly needs to have these alleged Bike Coach cars run with more frequency and on a predictable schedule. As we now understand it, the schedule is random and there is no way to time your trip to ensure that you will get a Bike Coach. Sounds improbable, but that's how it is!

Late in the evening, we rode home from the station along mostly empty city streets, recuperating from the train but also satiated from a day of exploring such a beautiful new place by bicycle. We only cycled 30 miles over all, and the point of the trip was mainly to hang out and get to know the area. Next time we will plan for a longer route. The North Shore is a great starting point for long distance touring: While there is no pleasant bicycle route North out of Boston, from Cape Ann we could just continue to cycle along the coast to Maine. Definitely something to consider, despite the less than ideal commuter rail experience.

What is it like to travel on a train with a bike where you live, and do you do it often?

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