Bicycles and Escapism

[image via collectvelo]

A little while ago I came across this beautiful old photo of three Parisian ladies with their bicycles. How happy they look, how carefree - it was a picture that put a nostalgic smile on my face... until I noticed the date, which was 1942. Carefree Parisians giggling on their bikes during nazi occupation? Historically, the photo did not make sense. I was not the only one to notice the discrepancy, and soon comments began appearing below the image, such as "It looks [as if] nothing happened in France during the war?" and "odd, they didn't care the Germans were occupying their city?" The person who posted the photo then explained that it was a publicity shot from a 1942 fashion show, "Journée de `l'élégance à bicyclette." Now it made more sense: The image was intentionally designed to be one of much needed make-believe - suggesting the sort of light-hearted existence that was very far removed from the realities of actual life in Paris at the time. The bicycle here was used as a symbol of escapism.



Looking at contemporary visual narratives involving bicycles, my mind keeps drifting back to this photo and I cannot help but see a connection. While analysts have attempted to explain the current trendiness of cycling with economic and environmental factors, that never rang entirely true to me. There is an undercurrent of hysteria in both the commercial, political and personal focus on the bicycle we see today that goes beyond practical concerns and even aesthetic interests.It is as if the very idea of bicycles - in its deep-rooted association with a simpler, more innocent era and also in its inherent promise of mobility - has the power to reduce anxiety, which could explain its popularity (and marketability?) during times of heightened uncertainty, threat, and social unrest.

Looking for Metro/Subway Art during a rainy Sunday in Stockholm

Stockholm is a captivating and elegant city when its graced with beautiful sunny weather, but like Amsterdam, it sucks big time when it’s raining.

My original plan for the day was quite simple, just three things that I wanted to do before I fly out early evening back to Amsterdam:

1) Climb up the Kaknästornet (Kaknas tower) to catch magnificent views of Stockholm, which will be facing the medieval island city of Gamla Stan.
2) Check out all the different types of art in the city’s metro (Tunnelbana) and train station.
3) Later in the afternoon I am meeting an old colleague in Gamla Stan, so another opportunity to try Swedish food for late lunch.

Advertisement in the subway of a leading Swedish telecommunications company. Switching heads =)

The first two things on my agenda didn’t really materialise, or well, just partly, all because of the weather. It poured. Very hard. Damn the rain.

Secondly, Stockholm didn’t really have a guide book about the art they have in their subways. The biggest showcase they have in the centre is Kungsträdgården metro station that is supposed to look like an archealogical excavation but it was closed for renovation. There was a long queue at the T-Centralen tickets and information and that instantly sent me off to the doors.

Not wanting to wait to get info, I decided to just wing it. I jumped on a line that brought me out of the busy city to the suburbs. We came out of the subway, the scenery changed, the pace became slower and it is quieter. You can say that I spent a few hours searching for subway art as well as joyriding. This is definitely NOT the Sunday in Stockholm that I expected it to be. However, it is pouring cats and dogs and cows outside so I guess for the moment the subway is then the best place to be?

This is what I am looking for: Stockholm Metro Art. My fotos below does not even come close! I will have to visit them on my next Stockholm trip.

The upside of joyriding is that I was able to see the suburbs, a bit of life outside Stockholm, a glimpse of daily normal life in Sweden. And while sitting in the metro, I was overcome by a déjà vu encounter, it was a compelling and strange familiarity that brought me back to my first few years in the Netherlands which I largely spent on buses, trams and trains. It felt really weird but nice.

Also, another mistake I made was I assumed big time that the locals, and in this case, the metro drivers would know about the subway art. Helaas, nope. I had a long chat with a metro driver who advised me to go back to T-Centralen.

Armed with that advise, I went back to town and decided to just continue shopping until it’s time to see my old colleague in Stortorget, Gamla Stan.

Me in the bathroom and my morning breakfast. I piled some bacon. I only eat pork when its (1) dried cured sausage and must be hard (2) bacon and must be crispy. Other than that pass off please.

Hotorget station that graced in Madonna’s music video Ray of Light.

Stockholm Central Station.

Orange and Green Lines.

Mosaic tile art.

Cycling and Self-Portraiture

I have long been interested in the connection between cycling and amateur self-portraiture. Anyone familiar with the world of bicyclists' image galleries is also familiar with the ubiquitous "panda shots," storefront reflections, snapshots of one's bike shadow. Taken quickly with tiny low-quality cameras, these provide spontaneous glimpses into how we move through the world, what we encounter along the way, and how we relate to our bicycles while doing so. Over the years it has become a distinct genre.




But why do it? Looking in from the outside, it is easy to interpret it as a contemporary obsession with documentation, a marking of territory, or in the case of "panda shots" (pictures of yourself taken while cycling) as a showing off of skill. And of course to some extent it is all that. But what makes it bike-specific? I have never encountered another group outside of the art world that is as prone to self-portraiture as cyclists. Joking around with bikeyface, we tried to start a trend for "walk pandas," but somehow pedestrian self-portraiture does not hold the same appeal.






Last year I wrote aboutbicycle blogs and exhibitionism - describing a culture among the blogs of beginner female cyclists where women communicate and encourage each other by showing pictures of themselves doing everyday bike-related activities. Outside of the intended audience (for example, when observed by experienced male cyclists), this is sometimes misinterpreted as exhibitionism. But for the intended audience it is in fact a "teaching by doing" sort of tool that can be more effective than any advocacy.




Still the trend for self-portraiture among cyclists is not limited to this alone. It is more widespread than that and encompasses a more diverse demographic. From racers to retrogrouches to randonneurs to pedaling fashionistas, cyclists just seem compelled to snap pictures of themselves on or next to their bikes.







It is possible that moving around by bicycle, particularly when we are new to it in adulthood, heightens our sense of self-awareness and it is this that inspires the self-portraiture. In a sense, the cyclist keeps a visual diary. And a true diary, be it written or visual, is more than just about what happens in one's environment; typically the diarist also focuses on themselves.




How well this works as an explanation, I don't know. But as a psychologist and a painter I am fascinated by the tradition of self-portraiture I've seen emerge as more and more cyclists share their images with the world. If you take pictures of yourself on or with your bike, why do you do it?

A Little Taste of Eldo

(Photo: a view of the 300-foot Bastille taken from the descent path down from the top of the Wind Tower. In the foreground the climbers are atop the first pitch of the Wind Ridge, a point from which we traversed off the Wind Tower early in the day.)
I recently fell in love with Eldorado Canyon. I barely got to experience it, but I loved it nonetheless.
I was in Colorado for a week in August with my wife and kids, and two other families. It was my first time in the state. We were vacationing in Summit County, at least an hour and a half from Denver, but I made my friend G promise that for at least one day we'd make it to one of the world-class climbing areas near Boulder. G introduced me to rock climbing in 2006, and for this I will be forever grateful, but climbing hasn't really been his thing lately. The lucky bastard moved to Denver in July, yet by the time of our visit in late August he had yet to set foot in Boulder Canyon, Eldorado Canyon, the Flatirons.... or any other Colorado climbing area. I saw it as my duty to drag him back from our vacation house to the suburbs of his new home city so we could both be introduced to the glories of at least one of the local climbing meccas.
Out of the wealth of Colorado choices I picked Eldorado Canyon because I wanted multipitch trad routes. A friend let me borrow his copy of the old Falcon guide written by Richard Rossiter, and I'm sure it would have served me well enough if I'd used it. But because I'm a sucker for guidebooks I went ahead and purchased Steve Levin's glossy new Eldo guide, and boy is it a beautiful book, an obvious labor of love filled with helpful, comprehensive information along with many entertaining historical pieces written by the great climbers of Eldo's past.
After poring over Levin's masterpiece, I had my heart set on doing either one of two classic moderates I felt I could lead comfortably: The Bastille Crack (5.7) or Rewritten (5.7, but via the 5.8 first pitch of The Great Zot). I was confident I'd be fine on either one of these routes. But as our Eldo day approached I started to feel I shouldn't push too hard to do them. I wanted G to enjoy the day, and I knew he wouldn't want to lead anything as hard as 5.7; he might not even be comfortable following climbs at that grade. I also worried that even if he was enthusiastic he'd struggle with the cruxes and we'd end up bailing. And let's face it, I had doubts about myself as well. A climber on The Bastille Crack had decked off the low crux the week before, falling from 20 feet up at the extremely polished step left to the namesake crack. His protective gear, in the flexy flake to the right, had popped right out. I didn't want that to be me. And as for Rewritten, while I wasn't worried about decking, I knew the approach would take a while, the route would be long, the crux difficult to bail from, the traverse nerve-wracking for G, and the descent complicated. Having never been in the canyon before, I didn't want to wind up in an epic.
So at some point before we actually drove over to the canyon, I decided to shelve these ambitions, and just do something easy. I proposed to G that we do The Wind Ridge, a three-pitch 5.6 that goes to the top of the Wind Tower, one of the smaller formations in the canyon.
But nature had other plans.
We arrived in good time. As we drove in I was immediately enthralled with the canyon. The rock was gorgeous. The possibilities seemed endless. It was a weekday and we were only the third car in the lot. I couldn't resist looking at The Bastille Crack-- it is just a few steps from the parking lot-- and I thought to myself that we might get on it later if things went really fast and well. Then I forced myself to walk away from it, cross the bridge, and head to the Wind Tower.
We found our route quickly, sorted the gear, and started up. I loved the texture of the rock. The sandstone was so easy to grip; chalk seemed totally superfluous. I had been worrying about how comfortable I'd feel climbing in Eldo, about whether I'd need to adjust to the rock or the ratings, but this first pitch put my mind at ease. The climbing felt just like a 5.6 in the Gunks, and just as fun. As I finished the first pitch, I thought things were going quite well.
Then G came up and spoiled my reverie by pointing out that it was about to rain. I hadn't even noticed. Suddenly it was cloudy in every direction. Then I felt the drops begin to fall, and I became infuriated. This wasn't supposed to happen. The forecast was for temperatures in the seventies with a zero percent chance of rain. ZERO. I looked around the canyon. Just over yonder a party had started up the Bastille Crack, but we could see they were now bailing. I looked to our left and could see what seemed like an easy traverse off the Wind Tower. This seemed like a better option than continuing upward into a storm. So, reluctantly, I agreed to abandon the climb.
Back on the ground we decided to sit a while and see how the weather developed. The storm, which had seemed to be beginning, never actually got started. After those first few drops it stopped again and never really got to actually raining. The rock was still dry and other parties were going at it, climbing all around. Still, the sky was completely overcast and it appeared it could pour at any moment. So after sitting for a bit I proposed that if we could find an easy climb that we could be certain would be uncomplicated to escape from at the end of the first few pitches, we should just start climbing again. I opened the guidebook to check and immediately found a route called The Bomb, which is only 5.4 but which Levin gives three stars. It appeared easy to rap off after pitches one and two. And it was the original route up the Wind Tower, going all the way to the top. I was sold and we climbed it.
The route turned out to be very good. I'd recommend it to anyone, but as Levin warns, you should be very careful of the rotten rock near the top of the Wind Tower. It is an unavoidable band of rock, really more of a pile of sandstone shingles, that is quite easy to climb but 100% loose. There is no acceptable pro through this section, and every piece of rock that you grab could be easily pulled out.
And while the rock was totally solid lower down the tower, I did begin to have some doubts about Steve Levin's guidebook and his notion of a "PG" protection rating. One pitch ascended a trench-like feature up the wall for 90 feet. I kept searching and searching for pro, but eventually found only two chockstones to sling and two cam placements for the entire pitch. I found the climbing extremely easy, and I tried to position myself such that a fall would take me into the trench rather than down the wall, but nevertheless four placements in 90 feet was not my idea of "PG." I think this pitch would make a new leader piss his or her pants. But since the climbing felt so secure it didn't worry me very much; in fact it led me to a tiny epiphany about what it means to be "solid" in a grade.
There have come moments in the last couple years in which I've decided that I was solid in trad 5.6, then 5.7, then 5.8, and for a month or so I thought I might actually be a 5.9 trad climber. Most of these moments came when I did a climb of whatever grade and things went well. Even if I found the climb difficult, I made the moves, I placed good gear, I didn't freak out, and it seemed like the best day ever at the cliff. Then I broke my ankle last October on a 5.9+ and after recovering and gaining a little weight I found myself uncertain of everything. This whole year turned into a one step forward/two steps back sort of situation, played out over and over again. Nothing at 5.8 or above seemed to come without complications, and I could never decide if my physical or mental condition was the handicap.
Climbing The Bomb on the Wind Tower, I realized that I might have discovered a way to measure my own solid-ness in a grade, at least when it comes to my mental state. I decided I can say I'm solid in the grade if I can calmly go about my business, even when no pro appears, and not be falling apart inside. This is pretty easy to accomplish on a 5.4. But what's the highest grade at which I can perform like this?
I certainly wouldn't set out to purposely test my performance with no pro at higher grades, but I do recall one pitch earlier this year where I stumbled into the same sort of situation at a higher grade than 5.4. I was with V in the Gunks, climbing Airy Aria. V led the 5.8 first pitch. It was one of my first 5.8 leads last year, but we hadn't completed it then and we were both excited to come back this year and finish the climb. V led pitch one well and I followed it with no issues, feeling good. I then took off from the bolts atop pitch one, planning to go all the way to the GT ledge in one pitch. I made the traverse out from the anchor with no problems, and may have deliberately passed up a gear placement just above the one at the end of the traverse, thinking I'd soon find another placement and that I should conserve gear. I then entered the steep 5.7 crux portion of the pitch, and I couldn't find any pro until it was over. I kept stepping up, looking for pro, and finding none. At one point I looked back to my last piece and I was extremely unhappy; a fall would have been ugly, a long swing. But as I couldn't see any gear options I had no choice but to carry on, telling myself not to worry, I am totally solid in this grade. Eventually I made it to the little belay stance above the crux, slammed in two cams, and could exhale.
At the time this experience reminded me of the maxim that you shouldn't pass up gear placement opportunities if you don't know where your next piece will be. But looking back on it now, I think it gives me some clarity as to where I stand with regards to 5.7. I've led a ton of 5.7s this year, refused to lead one or two, and backed off a couple that I didn't like the looks of after a couple moves. But when push comes to shove, when there's no pro and no choice but to carry on, I think I'm fine at the grade. 5.8? 5.9? I have no idea. So as much as I hate to admit it I don't think I can say today that I'm solid in either grade. I haven't yet passed the test.
Back to Eldo: as we topped out on the Wind Tower, the clouds finally disappeared and we enjoyed brilliant sunshine for the rest of the afternoon. After we descended we did a couple more easy pitches, then walked around the canyon just a little before heading back to Summit County. I got a look at the Whale's Tail and the giant Redgarden Wall, and felt hungry to return. Some day soon I have to make it happen. I trust the sandstone will wait for me.

Helpston circular

Helpston, in Northamptonshire at the time, was the birthplace of the poet John Clare. We started our walk from the John Clare Cottage and museum. Apart from the information about the poet, this is another useful stop on the coffee-shop circuit.




We walked towards the village cross for a few yards, then turned left into the yard of The Blue Bell pub. At the back of the car park there's a stone stile leading on to a footpath which goes behind the village primary school, then across a couple of fields to reach a minor road. We turned left, and walked along the road for a few hundred yards, past another small road, until we came to a footpath leading off to the left. We followed this path east with a hedge on our right, then slightly south until we met yet another small road. Here we turned right, then after a couple of hundred yards we turned right, taking the footpath, not the bridleway. They are very close - the footpath is about three yards beyond the bridleway.




The path goes south west across a field, then south along the edge of a wood, then south-west again, before reaching the Stamford Road. Just opposite this point is The Granary - a farm shop and another one on the coffee-shop circuit. We decided we had plenty of time to indulge ourselves today!

What d'you mean - we've only walked three miles!

we left the Granary, and turned right along the Stamford Road. After about half a mile of road walking, and one crossroads we took a footpath off to the right, along a field boundary, and down towards the edge of a small wood. Shortly after the wood the path turns from southwest to north west then curves round following a field boundary then along the northern edge of some more woodland - Foster's Coppice. After a short distance we turned left (north) along a track which took us back to the Stamford Road.









We turned left along the road for a very short distance, then right along a path, which skirted Hayes Wood, then turned south east to the Stamford Road again, turning north-west just as the path meets the road. We followed the path along the edge of Simon's Wood, and decided we could afford another short break - Maureen's scones, a nearly forgotten treat over the last three weeks, were welcome.




We followed the edge of the wood, which became Oxey Wood. The path ruined slightly north east at the end of the woodland, and led to a wider track running east. We followed this for about half a mile, then turned left past College cottages. This track took us directly to the road into Helpston, very close to the railway crossing. From there it was a straightforward road walk back into the village, past the church, the John Clare monument and the market cross.

St Botolph's church

John Clare monument

Helpston Butter Cross, where markets were held

Ho ho! Just back - I took the washing in, soaked myself, then looked outside - wet stuff from heaven again! Perfect timing.








For a similar walk on 10 October click here. In reverse, with slight variations.

Sherpa Peak

Sherpa Peak is a large bump on the east shoulder of Mt. Stuart. It does not get climbed near as often as Stuart. It was nice to climb something new in the range. Mark and Doug did it as a day hike.



Climbers near the false summit of Mt. Stuart. There was still a lot of snow at the end of June.




Mark leading the way up the West Ridge.






Doug working his way up.






Sherpa Balanced Rock is a feature visible from all over the Stuart Range. It doesn't get climbed very often. It looks like the wind could blow it over, but it is actually pretty well built. We couldn't leave without climbing it. Mark led the way up and Doug followed. It was nice to finally stand on top of that rock we have looked at so many times.
Sherpa Peak is the shaded peak on the right shoulder of Mt. Stuart as seen in this photo from Longs Pass. It was another memorable day spent above treeline!

Ha-Ha-Harvest

Garden Blogger Bloom Day and Blog Action Day are rapidly approaching. While I struggle with those large concepts, here's a small post - and small is the appropriate size since what passes for a harvest here is paltry, in spite of 3 years of amending and working the soil, buying good quality plant starts and an abundance of water this summer.


Some plants grew well, but made little fruit - look at that pitiful Bell pepper. The fig tree finally started to grow - these four figs at once are a bonanza! We can't make sauces when one small tomato per week, pre-punctured by some critter, is the norm. This is the first year ever for an edible pecan - and it took nearly 40 inches of rain to get them. I cracked a bucketful to get the nuts on that plate - the rest were empty, not developed, or moldy. If you want to flavor food, we can offer rosemary, English mint, lemon thyme, basil, culinary sage, Mexican oregano, chives, Pineapple sage, parsley and Mexican mint marigold, AKA Texas tarragon, pictured above.
Instead of Bell peppers we can pick fiery Indian peppers or hot-as-blazes Mariachi peppers. Our garden could not sustain us for long - it's not a root cellar - it's more like a refrigerator containing nothing but condiments.

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 Dynamoin 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 stageI 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 hereand Jon here. Thank you for reading!