Saturday, Aug. 21, 2010
This was very unusual. I had ridden Day 2 just two days earlier and was now back at it again. I never go twice in the same week-I need more time than that to rest my muscles, plan the next days route, and let the wanderlust build up to bursting. And I don’t usually ride on Saturdays. Saturdays are 'working around the house' and family days. But Margaret, my wife, was away for several days, Gordon and Abby were working and living at camp, and it was another terrific weather day-not to mention I kept having this unreasonable thought that I might find the camera I lost two days ago. Yeh, I might find it somewhere along the 40 miles of road between Dover and Weston... I had it narrowed down that far. I knew I had taken pictures at the turn around point-the priory at Weston, and I didn’t remember taking any other pictures that day...
So even though the new ground today would be from Weston to Bridgewater, the days ride began at the same car park and would cover exactly the same route in reverse all the way from Dover to Weston, if need be. I was looking for a gray camera case that had come undone from my belt somewhere along the route two days before. I knew the chances of finding it were miniscule, but it seemed more likely that it would have shaken off while bouncing from rock to rock on one of the rough sections. I would concentrate on those, but just in case, I kept one eye scanning the road side as I rode along. It required a third of my attention and took away from the enjoyment of riding, but after all I had ridden this section just two days before. At about mile twelve, I was entering a woods section where there was some very rough going, when I spotted a case before the rough section began (although after it in the original sequence when it had been lost), unharmed and near the middle of the trail, standing out very clearly from the smooth brown dirt upon which it rested. The case was actually black, not the gray I remembered, and had it fallen among the rocks or weeds just yards ahead, I could have easily overlooked it.
I couldn't help but wonder-it just didn't seem normal- finding both the camera and the maps two days earlier, Oh, the losing of either was all to easy to understand, but the finding...the maps should have been blown all over the highway, if not ripped to pieces and yet they were one on top of the other, intact, and safely off the travel lane, yet readily visible in the breakdown lane. And now I had the camera back, untouched, and still working-I turned it on and checked-finding it was too easy-with over 40 miles of all kinds of roads to search, after two days worth of passing traffic that could have crushed it had it fallen in the middle of the road, or knocked it off the roadway into hiding weeds.
Riding was easier now, now no longer scanning the roadside, and with a light and grateful heart, the miles floated by. Arriving at Weston near noon, I picnicked again by the pond, and filled up my water bottle at the tap in the welcome room. I had been drinking one of my favorite brands, Poland Springs-one of the best tasting bottled waters around in my opinion. I couldn’t help but notice that the Priory water tasted just as good-in fact, exactly the same. Located at the end of the road on the outskirts of Weston, and adjacent to the Green Mountain National Forest, the priory is well situated to take advantage of natural isolation of its water source. Not everyone is so lucky. The pure water ride exists to raise funds to help purify drinking water for people whose water is not safe to drink. Please donate generously so we can help many.
There were several nice roads, all new for ride this year, in the town of Mount Holly. There is something about the soil in this area that makes the roads beautifully white. This makes the pristine summer palaces even more visually appealing-gorgeous country farms immaculately maintained and carefully situated to attain the finest mountain views and looking every inch a feature from Vermont Life or Country Living.
After miles of this sort of scenery, I was totally unprepared for the Old Shunpike [that's its real name]- a weed infested track which wound through a scattered junkyard of partially dismantled, rusting, and unrecognizable vehicles and passed by the teetering remains of a hippie house, so desolate and decaying, that it was palpably spooky-as if some Hulk-like spirit had, in a rage flung a full grown tree, smashing the house halfway to destruction, then sudden left leaving the inexorable elements to slowly finish it off. It was too eerie to stop for a picture [Note: I'm planning to return and take pictures next year], and I was only too glad to attempt the rickety remains of a bridge just beyond that held the only hope of avoiding a return. Climbing up the old wood roads beyond the bridge brought me further and further from the menacing evil and back, with an involuntary shiver, into the thin veneer of normality that we incorrectly assume is safe and mistakenly call propriety.
The little town of Shrewsbury has a pleasant old store that is the only business establishment for miles and miles around. This quaint and sleeply little hamlet has not been sidesteppedby current trends. I couldn’t find a Coke or even a Arizona tea to quench my mid-afternoon thirst, only a brand of organic oolong tea sweetened with honey called REAL. And Twinkies were nowhere to be found, only day old muffins baked by the owner that tasted a week old and cost more. To be fair, the unnatural heat and humidity had no doubt prematurely aged a fine product without the doubtful benefit of additives to retard spoilage.
As I got refueled, I reminesced that at this same store, thirty some years ago, I had stopped to rest after riding my bicycle up the winding state forest road from the other direction, and bought a little book called 'Rightly Dividing the Word of Truth'. Nothing had changed except perhaps the owner and the products for sale. Soon it was time to hit the road again. Something I was eager to do, in hopes of finding a Coke or Twinkie or even maybe both. Imagine then my disappointment upon arriving at the gas station and Quik-Stop store that was my turn-around point, only to find it was closed. No Coke and no alternative but to keep going.
Plymouth was the next town but the gas pump there was eighty years old and hadn't worked for the last sixty. Chatting with the proprietor of the general store I learned that he and all the locals were disappointed with the closing of the Quik-Stop station. For them, it meant a 7 mile trip to Bridgewater whenever they needed gas, a trip I was only going to have to make this one time. A can of cold Moxie and an Almond Joy fortified me for the 14 mile detour.
The store at Bridgewater corners looks like a typical country general store. But it’s located on Rt 4, a busy highway that transports mainly tourists to and from Woodstock, the town next door, which might explain why the ambiance is more like a Seven-Eleven in Anytown, USA. The busy proprietor hardly looked at me as I paid for my gas.
You would think, with the close call I had just had with the maps two days prior, especially since I had to rely on them so many times, that I would have been absolutely certain to bring all the maps for the days ride-but no, in the spontaneity of this day's ride, I overlooked the obvious. So far I had been lucky-the turn by turn instructions had been correct and there had been no need to consult them. Now I was on the return route-the same route that I had ridden last year, and lost. The route sheet was clearly wrong and I had no maps. I had a hunch about a turn to take, if that didn't work out, my only guide would be the sun. I turned around and rode a mile or so back to an intersection and took the opposite road, even though I did not think it was the right one-but it was. In less than 5 miles, I was lost again. This time I ignored my directions, which were wrong anyway, and followed my instincts-instincs which had brought me in large circles many times. I have read that this is common with lost people. This then is the only hint of normalcy in my behavior. So it was a surprize when this time-although I didn't end up exactly whrere I should have, it was somewhere close instead of back wither I had started. Requiring me to concede that maybe I am a total freak after all...
I made it back to Weston later than I would have liked, grabbed a quick snack, and took the same route back to the truck. This was fresh in my mind from two days before, and I made good time, although with the lengthening shadows and fading sunlight, my riding got embarassingly bad as I bounced off more obstacles than I avoided.
I good some weird looks from some swimmers at the car park when I was loading the bike up. But didn't think much about it, other than to guess that they probably weren't used to seeing to many gray-headed old men on beat-up old dirt bikes taking up parking spaces. The park and ride was a popular place to park and swim for the locals as it was right on a shallow river, and close to the population center of Brattleboro. In fact, this was its primary, although unintended, use.
It was late and I was hungry so I stopped at Brattleboro Burger King, where I fortunately went first to the bathroom before ordering supper. Looking in the mirror I saw a Native American with a war-painted face. Had Geronomo seen it, US History would be different. I thought of the weird and averted looks of the day and wondered how long my face had been like this. I remembered pushing my glasses up with my gloves several times throughout the day. My gloves must have been saturated with powered dirt because they left streaks as dark as a magic marker. As I washed up in the sink, I made another New Year's resolution-whenever riding, always look into my rear view mirror before appearing in public...
This was very unusual. I had ridden Day 2 just two days earlier and was now back at it again. I never go twice in the same week-I need more time than that to rest my muscles, plan the next days route, and let the wanderlust build up to bursting. And I don’t usually ride on Saturdays. Saturdays are 'working around the house' and family days. But Margaret, my wife, was away for several days, Gordon and Abby were working and living at camp, and it was another terrific weather day-not to mention I kept having this unreasonable thought that I might find the camera I lost two days ago. Yeh, I might find it somewhere along the 40 miles of road between Dover and Weston... I had it narrowed down that far. I knew I had taken pictures at the turn around point-the priory at Weston, and I didn’t remember taking any other pictures that day...
So even though the new ground today would be from Weston to Bridgewater, the days ride began at the same car park and would cover exactly the same route in reverse all the way from Dover to Weston, if need be. I was looking for a gray camera case that had come undone from my belt somewhere along the route two days before. I knew the chances of finding it were miniscule, but it seemed more likely that it would have shaken off while bouncing from rock to rock on one of the rough sections. I would concentrate on those, but just in case, I kept one eye scanning the road side as I rode along. It required a third of my attention and took away from the enjoyment of riding, but after all I had ridden this section just two days before. At about mile twelve, I was entering a woods section where there was some very rough going, when I spotted a case before the rough section began (although after it in the original sequence when it had been lost), unharmed and near the middle of the trail, standing out very clearly from the smooth brown dirt upon which it rested. The case was actually black, not the gray I remembered, and had it fallen among the rocks or weeds just yards ahead, I could have easily overlooked it.
I couldn't help but wonder-it just didn't seem normal- finding both the camera and the maps two days earlier, Oh, the losing of either was all to easy to understand, but the finding...the maps should have been blown all over the highway, if not ripped to pieces and yet they were one on top of the other, intact, and safely off the travel lane, yet readily visible in the breakdown lane. And now I had the camera back, untouched, and still working-I turned it on and checked-finding it was too easy-with over 40 miles of all kinds of roads to search, after two days worth of passing traffic that could have crushed it had it fallen in the middle of the road, or knocked it off the roadway into hiding weeds.
Riding was easier now, now no longer scanning the roadside, and with a light and grateful heart, the miles floated by. Arriving at Weston near noon, I picnicked again by the pond, and filled up my water bottle at the tap in the welcome room. I had been drinking one of my favorite brands, Poland Springs-one of the best tasting bottled waters around in my opinion. I couldn’t help but notice that the Priory water tasted just as good-in fact, exactly the same. Located at the end of the road on the outskirts of Weston, and adjacent to the Green Mountain National Forest, the priory is well situated to take advantage of natural isolation of its water source. Not everyone is so lucky. The pure water ride exists to raise funds to help purify drinking water for people whose water is not safe to drink. Please donate generously so we can help many.
There were several nice roads, all new for ride this year, in the town of Mount Holly. There is something about the soil in this area that makes the roads beautifully white. This makes the pristine summer palaces even more visually appealing-gorgeous country farms immaculately maintained and carefully situated to attain the finest mountain views and looking every inch a feature from Vermont Life or Country Living.
After miles of this sort of scenery, I was totally unprepared for the Old Shunpike [that's its real name]- a weed infested track which wound through a scattered junkyard of partially dismantled, rusting, and unrecognizable vehicles and passed by the teetering remains of a hippie house, so desolate and decaying, that it was palpably spooky-as if some Hulk-like spirit had, in a rage flung a full grown tree, smashing the house halfway to destruction, then sudden left leaving the inexorable elements to slowly finish it off. It was too eerie to stop for a picture [Note: I'm planning to return and take pictures next year], and I was only too glad to attempt the rickety remains of a bridge just beyond that held the only hope of avoiding a return. Climbing up the old wood roads beyond the bridge brought me further and further from the menacing evil and back, with an involuntary shiver, into the thin veneer of normality that we incorrectly assume is safe and mistakenly call propriety.
The little town of Shrewsbury has a pleasant old store that is the only business establishment for miles and miles around. This quaint and sleeply little hamlet has not been sidesteppedby current trends. I couldn’t find a Coke or even a Arizona tea to quench my mid-afternoon thirst, only a brand of organic oolong tea sweetened with honey called REAL. And Twinkies were nowhere to be found, only day old muffins baked by the owner that tasted a week old and cost more. To be fair, the unnatural heat and humidity had no doubt prematurely aged a fine product without the doubtful benefit of additives to retard spoilage.
As I got refueled, I reminesced that at this same store, thirty some years ago, I had stopped to rest after riding my bicycle up the winding state forest road from the other direction, and bought a little book called 'Rightly Dividing the Word of Truth'. Nothing had changed except perhaps the owner and the products for sale. Soon it was time to hit the road again. Something I was eager to do, in hopes of finding a Coke or Twinkie or even maybe both. Imagine then my disappointment upon arriving at the gas station and Quik-Stop store that was my turn-around point, only to find it was closed. No Coke and no alternative but to keep going.
Plymouth was the next town but the gas pump there was eighty years old and hadn't worked for the last sixty. Chatting with the proprietor of the general store I learned that he and all the locals were disappointed with the closing of the Quik-Stop station. For them, it meant a 7 mile trip to Bridgewater whenever they needed gas, a trip I was only going to have to make this one time. A can of cold Moxie and an Almond Joy fortified me for the 14 mile detour.
The store at Bridgewater corners looks like a typical country general store. But it’s located on Rt 4, a busy highway that transports mainly tourists to and from Woodstock, the town next door, which might explain why the ambiance is more like a Seven-Eleven in Anytown, USA. The busy proprietor hardly looked at me as I paid for my gas.
You would think, with the close call I had just had with the maps two days prior, especially since I had to rely on them so many times, that I would have been absolutely certain to bring all the maps for the days ride-but no, in the spontaneity of this day's ride, I overlooked the obvious. So far I had been lucky-the turn by turn instructions had been correct and there had been no need to consult them. Now I was on the return route-the same route that I had ridden last year, and lost. The route sheet was clearly wrong and I had no maps. I had a hunch about a turn to take, if that didn't work out, my only guide would be the sun. I turned around and rode a mile or so back to an intersection and took the opposite road, even though I did not think it was the right one-but it was. In less than 5 miles, I was lost again. This time I ignored my directions, which were wrong anyway, and followed my instincts-instincs which had brought me in large circles many times. I have read that this is common with lost people. This then is the only hint of normalcy in my behavior. So it was a surprize when this time-although I didn't end up exactly whrere I should have, it was somewhere close instead of back wither I had started. Requiring me to concede that maybe I am a total freak after all...
I made it back to Weston later than I would have liked, grabbed a quick snack, and took the same route back to the truck. This was fresh in my mind from two days before, and I made good time, although with the lengthening shadows and fading sunlight, my riding got embarassingly bad as I bounced off more obstacles than I avoided.
I good some weird looks from some swimmers at the car park when I was loading the bike up. But didn't think much about it, other than to guess that they probably weren't used to seeing to many gray-headed old men on beat-up old dirt bikes taking up parking spaces. The park and ride was a popular place to park and swim for the locals as it was right on a shallow river, and close to the population center of Brattleboro. In fact, this was its primary, although unintended, use.
It was late and I was hungry so I stopped at Brattleboro Burger King, where I fortunately went first to the bathroom before ordering supper. Looking in the mirror I saw a Native American with a war-painted face. Had Geronomo seen it, US History would be different. I thought of the weird and averted looks of the day and wondered how long my face had been like this. I remembered pushing my glasses up with my gloves several times throughout the day. My gloves must have been saturated with powered dirt because they left streaks as dark as a magic marker. As I washed up in the sink, I made another New Year's resolution-whenever riding, always look into my rear view mirror before appearing in public...
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