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.

A Punch to the Stomach Before Going Home: Day Five of the Vermont to Rhode Island Adventure Ride

I was around five years old when it happened.  I was walking home from the babysitter’s house and decided to take the long way, because it was different.  That’s when a few of the older neighborhood boys surrounded me just up the street from my house.  They held my arms behind my back and took turns punching me in the stomach. To this day I don’t know what possessed them: maybe I said something, maybe I was dressed the wrong way, maybe it was my turn, or maybe it was just because I was five and they were the big kids on the block.  Getting jumped sucks. But it especially sucks when the safety of home is within sight.  Just a half a block more and I was walking in the door, grabbing a snack, and lounging on the couch.  But no, not that day.  Instead I was absorbing blows from clenched fists with my intestines.  All because I decided to take the long way home.

Seven Levels of Wet: Day Two, Vermont to Rhode Island Adventure Ride

I was on the second day of my Vermont to Rhode Island adventure ride trying to link together trails all the way across New England.  Thunderstorms and thousands offeet of elevation had served up a slice of humble pie on day one.  I was already forced to improvise.  But day two promised to be drier.  At least that’s what the weatherman told me.   Instead I was about visit the seven levels of wet.

Taconicked: Day One, Vermont to Rhode Island Adventure Ride

How far can you get on trails?  That’s the burning question that has motivated my bike adventures for the better part of two years now:  The Kingdom Sampler, Boston to Northampton, Southern NH Overnighter, the Trunkline Adventure, and the Big Dirty South ride. All iterations of the same goal: get as far as I can using as little road as possible.

The Best of Leominster

I recently re-visited one of my all-time favorite places to ride, and put together a  route for getting the best out of Leominster. 

Trunkline or Bust: Finding Adventure in Eastern Massachusetts

Rolling singletrack through Upton.

 I was a desiccated sock- dry, crumpled and salt caked.  The thirst that had been building in my throat suddenly left me feeling stale and flimsy on the bike as I rolled out of the woods and onto the blazing hot pavement.  I had gambled against a water break before my last foray into the woods and now I was going to pay the price. And let me tell you- getting behind on your hydration schedule is no way to go through an endurance ride.

Big Dirty South : A Dirty Fifty South of Boston (July 2017)

Like Endor without the adorable little chipmunk people.

I bought a gravel grinder/touring bike recently.  And so naturally I had to start riding insanely long mixed pavement and gravel rides.  The first of these rides took me to the southwestern suburbs of Boston where I strung together a fifty mile loop through the quiet trails and suburban streets of Wellesley, Needham and Dover.  I called this one the "Big Dirty South Ride".

Unfinished Business: The Last Slice of the Boston to Northampton Trail Epic

Like stairmaster.  With a bike.

Andy “One-Slice”. That’s the nickname my mentor jokingly gave me after noting my habit of ordering a small pizza and then eating all but one slice. The nickname was entirely in jest, but like any good nickname really put a burr under my ass. You see, I hate to start things and then not finish them. So much so, that I will put off starting something I don’t think I can finish right away. On more than one occasion, I’ve developed a plan, then shelved it for another day when I would have enough time - only that “time-free” day never comes. The only thing more annoying than a shelved plan, is the almost-finished one: bookmarks before the last chapter, and stories without endings- like pizza boxes with orphaned slices rattling around inside. And not all pizzas are created equal. Some of the slices ask-- no, demand- to be eaten.

Boston to Northampton Epic Trail Ride (July 2017)

My bike took me here.

 The light was fading fast as I slowly walked my bike up a ribbon of steep, rocky singletrack beneath the high canopy of old hardwoods.  My only companions, the mosquitos, urged me along the trail despite the empty feeling in my legs.  I looked up to see the top of the hill, seemingly miles away,and put my head back down.  I was broken.  Physically and mentally.  Although I was in the homestretch of my second day, it had been a hard day.  Hot. Humid. And what I had hoped was a flowy five miles of singletrack to end the day became a five mile slog on slick, steep, and rocky singletrack.  I didn’t have any choice but to push on.  There was no other way I was getting home.  And so I took another long pull from my water bottle, pushed one leg in front of the other, and brushed the swarm of mosquitos from my shoulders and back.  Only a couple more miles now.  It wouldn’t be long. And that’s when I heard the thunder.

Your Bucket List is Weighing You Down: A Harvard-Boxborough Study Proves It

Sweet, sweet, singletrack descents.

The perfect is the enemy of the possible, dreaming is the enemy of doing, and the bucket list is the enemy of a life filled with adventure.

Snowpocalypse In the Blue Hills Burbcountry

You could fit a car through there.  I can't say the same about my street.

Ullr is playing a cruel joke on the people of Boston this winter.  He has taken some of the narrowest, most congested streets in the country, and made them even more impassible.  At the same time he's crippled the city’s mass transit system.  It is a traffic shitstorm of epic proportions.  Commute times have tripled, kids have forgotten what school looks like, roofs are collapsing and Southie is one more nor’easter away from Walking Dead level of anarchy.  Funny what ninety inches of snow in a few short weeks can do.

The bright side of this giant frozen turd is the appearance of skiable glades, ledges and couloirs throughout the Boston burbcountry.  And nowhere has the transformation been more evident than the Blue Hills area south of Boston.

Mark Your Calendars! February 28th is the 80th Anniversary Thunderbolt Ski Race

Conditions in Massachusetts are "all-time" and this year's Thunderbolt Ski Race on Mount Greylock promises to be twice the challenge and twice the fun.

Answering the Riddle at Charlemont Trails (June 2014)

Something tells me the skiing in this glade isn't too shabby either.

A couple of years ago I was enjoying an evening ride on the singletrack around Belmont Rock Meadow when I came across another mountain biker.  We stopped to chat for moment and he presented me with a riddle that I've been struggling with ever since.

"Where can I find the real big hills around here? The long climbs and descents?", he posited.

Trip Report: The Mohawk Trail Slides

In the early morning hours of August 28, 2011, thousands of cubic yards of earth cut loose from its anchors on the slopes above the Cold River in Savoy, Massachusetts.  The saturated ground, which had already seen four inches of rain in the previous two weeks, gave way as tropical storm Irene dumped another six inches in less than eighteen hours.  The resulting avalanche of dirt, trees and rocks cut three distinct slides down the mountainside, across the road, and into the raging flood waters below.

Dawn Patrol in Heli-Free Weston

Improper bag placement technique.  -1pt

I got up a little early this morning.

Whipple Hill in Photos

Not far from the entrance to Whipple Hill in Lexington, MA
it becomes clear that you've left suburbia.

More Weston Singletracks (September 2012)

The bike was tired.  I was fine though. Really.

I took a couple hours on Saturday afternoon to make my first return to Weston after my July visit and do some more exploring of the singletrack offerings.

Wild Wild Weston (July 2012)

A really trashy part of Weston.  No really.  You're looking at a pile of trash.

Eight lanes of asphalt highway are all that separate the towns of Waltham and Weston, Massachusetts.  These hundred or so feet divide people making around $50,000 a year from those making closer to $200,000.  Perhaps this is the unspoken math that has prevented Weston from embracing a rail trail to connect the two communities.  While they might shop together at the Auburndale Star Market, the folks in Weston are a little reluctant to invite the masses into their manicured back yards.

Regardless of the reason, the reluctance to develop a paved trail along the old railbed connecting Waltham with the rest of Western Massachusetts is a gift to fat tire bikers.  

Lexington Singletracks (July 2012)

Not exactly a straight line.

The Minuteman Bikeway in MetroWest Boston is one of the most famous rail trails in the country.  And with good reason.  It provides a scenic and historic byway from Cambridge all the way to Bedford. Along the way it visits the town centers of Arlington and Lexington with their excellent restaurants and cultural attractions.  It is gem.  But it is also an attention whore.

(Way) Beyond the Minuteman: Estabrook Woods (July 2012)

Somewhere between Concord and Carlisle, MA.

“You’re not lost if you’re not supposed to be anywhere”, I kept telling myself as I turned onto yet another unmarked singletrack in an unknown direction.  It was one o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday and I was wandering around Estabrook Woods somewhere near Concord, MA.   I was following my “inner compass” toward what I believed to be the ice cream stands of Carlisle, but without checking my GPS I wasn’t really sure where I might be headed.  In other words: I was having fun.