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.

Connecticut's Chlorophyll Superhighways: Day Four of the Vermont to Rhode Island Adventure Ride

The coughing from my neighbor’s room woke me from a dead sleep.  My eyes opened, and I gasped for breath. As I wandered into the bathroom, the air was thick with nostalgia and mold spores.  The grungy and faded mid 1960’s brown, tan and orange tile décor in the bathroom conjured memories from my childhood home. The décor was “dated” in the 80’s when I was growing up.  Now it was on the line between comical and ironically vintage.  After a hot shower I loaded up the bike and escaped out into the fresh air under brilliant blue skies.  I had a lot of ground to cover that day. Luckily Connecticut is criss crossed with bikeways- chlorophyll superhighways that were just what the doctor ordered to transport me across the state and nurse me back to my old self.

Miles of Metacomet: Day Three, Vermont to Rhode Island Adventure Ride

Despite it being part of New England, I’ve never looked at Connecticut with the same respect or admiration as I do to Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, and yes, even Rhode Island.
It has vast tracts of wildlands, hard flowing rivers, and abundant trail networks, and yet I always felt like the state was one large suburban neighborhood for New York City.  I always pictured busy ten lane highways with jersey barriers, dirty highway rest areas, pretentious manicured “towne” centers, and traffic choked suburban hell. That’s because I was prejudiced against Connecticut.  There, I said it out loud. And like any ill-informed opinion, the cure was experience.  It was time for Connecticut and I to spend some quality time together: and what better place than on the Metacomet Trail.

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.

Singletrack Mining in Southern New Hampshire

Bikepacking highway.

The White Mountains.  Winnipesaukee. The Seacoast. 

Ask any New Englander to talk about must-see destinations in New Hampshire and these three areas invariably come to the top of the list.  Dig a little deeper and you might get mentions of Mount Monadnock, Santa’s Village, or even Manch-Vegas.  You’ll have to wait a while- a long while- before you hear someone tell you that you should definitely go visit Milford.  Or that you can’t miss Mason or Brookline.  And Greenville?  Yeah, that’s not going to be on the list.  But it should be.  It is time to visit the region that put the granite in the Granite State.

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".

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.

The Other Side of Highland (September 2016)

A hint of Fall on the trail.

It was all starting to look the same.  I muddled along a trail I was hoping would lead me northward and onto my planned route, but discovered yet another dead end as the trail began to loop back in on itself.  Gunshots echoed in the distance and the forest began to darken in the mid afternoon light. Freshly fallen twigs crunched under my tires as I rolled downhill and back to a familiar looking trail junction.  I loosened my elbows to absorb the logs and rocks hidden in the tall grass that had sprouted up under the break in the forest canopy.  As I watched the sharp broken stub of a branch roll under my tire, it occurred to me that my spare tube was sitting miles away in the back of my truck.   My anxiety level, already high, was now thick and suffocating.  I was running out of time.

Moosalamoo's Leicester Hollow & Chandler Ridge Loop (August 2016)

Sun, bike, singeltrack and water: a winning combination.

"Just beware of the stinging nettles."  Those were the words of Chas, co-owner of Frog Hollow Bikes in Middlebury after recommending that I check out Leicester Hollow/Chandler Ridge loop in Moosalamoo National Recreation Area.

I'm no stranger to brambles, having stumbled through more than my fair share of bushes over the years.  I regularly fished for baseballs in rasberry bushes wearing only shorts and a t-shirt when knee high socks and parachute pants were all the rage.  Heck, you'll still find me waist high in thickets of prickers looking for hidden singletrack.  I've picked more thorns out of my body and cursed more burdock than I care to remember.   So a warning about "stinging nettles" didn't phase me, until he repeated with any hint of a smile now gone from his face: "Really, watch out for those stinging nettles."

Fat Biking and Finding Humility in the Adirondack Backcountry (July 2016)

Big wheels keep on turnin'.  

Until recently I was particularly proud of the fact that I couldn’t remember the last time I shit my pants.  I knew it must have been thirty-five plus years since it last happened, because, really, who forgets a thing like that?

Luther Forest and Life Choices (July 2015)

It was 11;00PM.  Brian and I had spent two hours driving around Saratoga looking for a cheap motel with vacancy.  We finally overpaid for a couple dirty mattresses surrounded by four slabs of moldy sheetrock and a grubby plastic bathroom.

As I lay there with a belly full of potato chips, doughnuts and Four Loko, I began to doubt the wisdom of some of my recent decisions.

Daniels Road State Forest: Rock and Roll (July 2014)

If you're a beginner you may just want to wrap yourself in bubble wrap before leaving the parking lot.

There are some places that you go riding to unplug, relax, and let the flow lull you into a restorative trance.  And then there are the places where you make sure your life insurance premium is paid before you throw a leg over the top tube.

Prime Time and a Return to Ascutney (August 2015)

Mt. Ascutney

These are good days to be a mountain biker in New England. Trail networks are popping up like Republican presidential candidates.  From Stowe, VT to Charlemont, MA communities are embracing mountain biking and pouring resources into building and improving trails.  

But is more always better?  And does trail building equal improvement or progress?

The Kearsarge Powderline

“Wow.  That’s a great looking deer.”

There was just enough time for that simple thought to enter my brain as the front end of my Mercury Tracer crumpled and the airbag exploded into my face.  The sound of screeching brakes and glass scattering along the highway broke the pristine silence of a cold, clear November night somewhere near Warner, New Hampshire.

A cloud of white obscured my vision and as soon as the car came to rest in the breakdown lane, I jumped out.  I stood there by the side of the road for a second- still dazed and trying to make sense of what just happened.   By the time I figured out the car wasn’t on fire, and the white cloud was actually talcum powder from the airbag, the car was rolling down a steep embankment and unceremoniously mowing down a grove of young pine trees far below.

A passerby stopped when they saw me standing on the side of the road.   I explained that I had hit a deer.

“But where is your car?”   I pointed down at the now camouflaged car hidden in the trees below.

“Where’s the deer?”  That one had me stumped.  I had no idea.  It was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the front of the car, it didn’t get very far.

Eventually a state police officer arrived, and invited me to tell him what happened.

“Soooo…… where’s the car?”  “Aaaaand now,.... where’s the deer?”

The Wildcat Hypotenuse

Taking in a quiet sunset and pondering trigonometric functions.

Geometry, or better yet, a basic understanding of Geometry, can make the difference between ending your day with an ear-to-ear grin and memories of blissful turns, and ending your day walking down Route 16 in your bare stocking feet just the shell of a man.

Lincoln Gap and the Last Truffula Tree

I speak for your trees? 

I spend a lot of time contemplating my legacy while bottle feeding my four month old daughter. The enthusiasm with which she takes nourishment and rewards the world with giggles and poop is refreshing, and inspiring. To kill time between feedings, we read a lot of Zen buddhist literature taught by a giant panda bear. When I'm feeling particularly leftist-philosophical, I crack open The Lorax. She's learning a lot about social responsibility, and I've been thinking a lot all the bad things I did to Lincoln Gap.

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.