Monday, April 13, 2020

Big Dirty Codder: Falmouth to Provincetown by Mountain Bike

It was 1980 something and our ancient powder blue Ford Grenada lurched along the highway with Grandpa Turner’s pop-up camper clattering along behind us.  The wilds of Vermont in our rearview mirror, we sailed down 93 toward Boston, and the Cape beyond.  Dark clouds on the horizon morphed into wave upon wave of severe thunderstorms with blinding rain and howling winds. It was a family travel nightmare if ever one was conceived.  An overmatched old car full of young family being chased by a restless pop-up camper. Whipped by the winds our trailer flicked the edges of the highway, like the tail of some angry cat.  The chain that anchored it to us clinked and clanked against the hollow metal of the trailer’s tow arm.  Pressed to the steering wheel and laser focused on captaining our calamity train through the storm my father was blissfully unaware that the pop up camper door was open and our camping gear was jumping ship into the New Hampshire countryside.  It was vacation time, and we were headed to the Cape.  Minus some cooking gear.