Misty Memories: the Vermont Fall Classic

When I think about why the Vermont Fall Classic holds such importance for me, it's because this ride marked a point of no return. I didn't want to fall in love with this kind of riding, but I did. And it happened with a sort of romantic finality, a "sometimes you just know" moment that stretched into hours. I will never forget it. Several weeks later and now stuck at home with a bad case of flu, I keep dreaming about it, hallucinating it. Did it really happen the way I remember? Yes, I think so. But before I lose myself in purple prose, let me start with the facts.






The Vermont Fall Classic is an official, RUSA-sanctioned event organised by the New England Randonneurs, offering a100k Populaire and a 200k brevet (read more about these types of rideshere). But unlike typical brevets, the Vermont Fall Classic includes significant portions of unpaved roads. And while brevets of this distance (short by randonneurs' standards) are normally offered at the beginning of the season, theVermont Fall Classic is held at the very end. The idea is that participants get to see the changing leaves while enjoying a crisp Autumn day along beautiful dirt roads. A large group of us from Boston had been planning to do this ride for months, to carpool up to Northern Vermont and make a weekend of it. For me, the biggest draw were the dirt roads. I planned to do the Populaire and assumed that the route would not be overly challenging, since Populaires are the gateway to randonneuring and are meant to draw new people in. Operating under this assumption, I also invited my friend Bekka (bikeyface) and her boyfriend VorpalChortle, who were interested in trying some dirt roads. We were all looking forward to a lovely weekend and ride.





However, several days before the event some new information gave us pause. To our dismay, the forecast pretty much guaranteed rain, possibly heavy rain. And then we received the cue sheet and discovered that the 100k route was actually a 123k, with about 6,000 feet of climbing. So, instead of a sunny autumnal ramble, we were now looking at 76 very hilly miles in the rain. Was it worth it to drive up to Vermont for the weekend for that? My brain said "no, stay home." But my heart said "go." Many of the others decided to go as well. Unfortunately, Somervillain - with whom I was meant to carpool - got sick shortly before the ride and couldn't make it.




On Saturday morning I hitched a ride to Burlington with Bekka and VorpalChortle, who would take part in the brevet before continuing north to Canada on a little Autumn vacation. Being first time participants in a ride of this magnitude, theyhad no idea what to expect and made plans for alternative, shorter routes just in case. Discussing the route on the drive up,we were all hoping that the bleak weather prognosis would turn out to be wrong. But so far things were not looking encouraging. After more than 4 rainy hours in the car, we arrived in Burlington and headed straight for the Old Spokes Home - a legendary bike shop and museum that we had been looking forward to visiting. This visit cheered us up considerably and I wrote about it in detailhere.







Later in the afternoon, Bekka and VC proceeded to their hotel and I to the lodgings I'd be sharing with about a dozen other riders from Boston. Out of concern for privacy I don't want to say too much about where we stayed, but it was thoroughly communal. We were all to sleep in what was basically one room, mere inches from each other, with our bikes lined up down the hall. It was an interesting arrangement. After dropping my bike and bag off, I managed to get out for a walk along the shore of Lake Champlain before it grew dark. After that I headed to the town center (Burlington is relatively small and very walkable) and had an unexpectedly social evening - first meeting up for drinks with a group assembled by ride organiser Mike Beganyi, then later for dinner with the familiar Boston crew:Jon D, JP Twins, and Emily among others. I usually don't drink alcohol the night before a hard ride, but it was so cold and miserable that all of us ended up having some beers. There was a great feeling of solidarity that night, because we all showed up despite the terrible weather. We returned to our lodgings some time after 10pm and fell asleep before midnight.






At 5am the next morning I got up and prepared for the ride. Not knowing how bad the weather was going to be, I had brought several different clothing options including long winter tights. After stepping outside to check the weather I decided to wear those, as well as a long sleeve base layer, a cold-weather long sleeve jersey, and a lightweight rain jacket.I put on a visored wool hat.I stashed an extra pair of socks in my saddlebag, along with two small plastic bags in case of rain (more on this later).I made some coffee, ate some of my trail mix, and just after 6am headed out to the start at the Old Spokes Home with another rider. It was misty and raw out, but not raining.






At the start there were several dozen riders already gathered. Among these were many I recognised, even if I did not know them personally. One girl looked so familiar that I kept shyly circling her until she finally introduced herself asLily, a recent addition to Seven Cycles.






In the weak early morning light I noticed how ubiquitous all the bicycles looked. On closer inspection, the bikes themselves were actually pretty different, but nearly all of them - from vintage 650B conversions to titanium club racers - sportedfront racks with traditional handlebar bags. It was a curious sight. As for me, I was riding a work-in-progress Rawland that had just been assembled the day prior - ridable, but still missing some parts including a handlebar bag. Sifting through my images from the day, I am amused to discover that I took virtually no pictures of my bike. I kept photographing other people's bikes and figured I'd get to mine later, but never did. Well, I will post some once it's fully built up.







As we fussed around before the start, there was a lot of speculation as to whether it would rain and how badly. This was when some of the riders explained how they keep their feet dry in the event of a downpour. Apparently, you are supposed to put plastic bags not over your cycling shoes, but inside them, over your socks. Frankly I could not imagine this working or being comfortable, but took the bags and an extra pair of socks with me anyway. The remaining space in my saddlebag was taken up by food, tools, a small medical kit, a roll of tape, extra cue sheets, and my camera.






We received brief instructions from the ride organiser, who would be riding the Populaire himself. There would be no support except at the start and finish. Convenience store cashiers were to sign our control cards. We were responsible for our own rescue in the event of abandoning.






After a double-checking of cue sheets and GPS units, both the 200k and the 123k group were given the green light to head out at 7am.My goals for this ride were vague in the absence of Somervillain. The two of us are more or less well matched in terms of pace and we had planned to ride together. Now that he wasn't here, I did not know anyone else doing the Populaire other than Bekka and VorpalChortle, so I thought I'd ride with them at whatever pace they wanted and not worry about the clock. We set off a little after the start time at an unhurried pace.






The first few miles were paved, featuring rolling hills. We warmed up, with occasional stops to make clothing and bike adjustments. During this time I experienced and resolved two mechanical problems one after the other (headlight and drivetrain related). But after the first 8 miles of the route everything went smoothly.






As pavement turned to dirt, we rode through beautiful farmlands with hardly any cars around. It occurred to me that if I wanted to take pictures, I would need to pick up the pace in between the picture-taking, unless I wanted the ride to take all day. So from that point on, we agreed that I would ride ahead, reconvening with Bekka and VorpalChortle at various landmarks and rest stops. We were in good spirits and glad that it wasn't raining.






As I surged ahead, the landscape grew increasingly remote and rugged. But I wasn't alone for long. Soon I was joined by an older gentleman who must have started later than the others but was now racing his way through the course. We rode together for a couple of rolling miles and then began to climb a startlingly steep hill. I was impressed that this man gave no indication - in his breathing, speech pattern or bodily language - that he was exerting himself in any way. He just kept chatting easily while his legs moved in elegant circles. This admirable demeanor inspired me to try and keep up with him on the monstrous hill. By the time we reached the top I was red in the face and panting, while this amazing gentleman was hardly worse for wear. And then I saw the street sign: Duffy Road. We had just done the 4 mile climb the cue sheet warned about. I was grateful I had not realised this going into it; sometimes it's better not to know! Shortly after we parted ways as I stayed behind to take a couple of photos. After that I continued on my own.








The intense climb left me feeling nicely warmed up. As the scenery grew yet more dramatic, I began to fly through the fog and mist, as wild bursts of colour exploded all around me. And this is when the ride began for me in earnest. I loved the texture of the dirt roads under my tires and experienced an intense flow of pure unbridled happiness to be riding on such roads again. Uphill, downhill, loose, soft, slushy, I loved it all. No fear, just an unbelievable endorphin rush. I got into a rhythm where my legs spun effortlessly, my body on the bike felt weightless, and overall everything just seemed so free and limitless and utterly perfect that I could hardly feel the ground beneath me. A part of me wished that Somervillain and Brian P had been riding alongside, as they had been on similar rides. But another part of me savoured the loneliness of the experience. I've had glimpses into this high on previous rides, but now it was as if a dam broke and an intense bliss flooded my senses. And I know it's just a chemical thing; it's not magical or metaphysical. But try telling yourself that as you are flying up a dirt road straight into a cloud of mist through tunnels of gold and magenta.






As I progressed toward the first control point, I saw that if I pushed the pace, stopped taking pictures, and nixed the idea of reconvening with Bekka and VorpalChortle, I could still make it within the official time limit. I considered doing this, but ultimately decided against it. What did finishing within the time limit mean to me? Truthfully nothing. If it had I should have approached the ride differently to begin with. Well then, logically there was no reason to strive for an arbitrary time frame just because it now appeared within reach. The first control point wasat mile 35 andI arrived 15 minutes after it officially closed. I bought some water and asked the cashier to sign my card anyway, and she gladly did.






When reconvening with the others, it was good to catch up and share impressions of the route. Though a bit shell-shocked by the 4 mile climb (as was I!), Bekka and VorpalChortle were clearly enjoying the ride. At a rest stop around mile 25 they were in great spirits and had no intention of implementing a short cut route. Ditto at the first control 10 miles later.






I left the first control when I felt my muscles beginning to stiffen up, while the others stayed to have a bonk-preventive meal. I had been snacking pretty much continuously since the start of the ride and preferred to wait until later.






The next 20 miles are when things turn hazy. Not hazy because I don't remember them, but hazy because my memories of this stretch seems improbable. The rain did not begin right away. First the mist and the black clouds gathered. And this gathering was happening in a way that was visible to the naked eye. I could see shapes forming right in front of me, the density of the fog changing, twirls of white and gray mist dancing over the mountains and the fields. It was like watching one of those nature shows where they speed up hours of footage to show visible patterns of change that would otherwise be unobservable. Well, they were observable here. This wonderous dark magic show coincided with a steep 3 mile climb toward Smuggler's Notch. I was so mesmerised that I could hardly feel the climbing in my legs; I was practically floating upward in the swirls of dark mist.






Some time later, I paused at an intersection, trying to make sure the dirt road I was about to turn onto was the correct one. A lone station wagon was passing by and pulled over. The man rolled down his window and yelled "You don't want to go that way on a bike, trust me!" That's how I knew it was probably the correct road.






This next 5 mile dirt climb really wasn't bad compared to the previous two long climbs and all the other shorter steeper ones. In general, there were very few flat stretches on this ride, and climbing began to feel normal pretty quickly. Climbing felt like a state of mind and the dark weather felt oddly appropriate.






It began to rain right after a long, out of control, I-should-be-scared-but-I'm-not descent. I remember the winding narrow dirt road finally dumping me into an open field with surround views of mountains, and that's when it started.Not hard at first. But here is the strange thing, and another one of those memories I don't trust: I keep picturing the rain being black. It could not possibly have been, but that is how I experienced it. Sharp black droplets of rain at first, then sheets of it. I did not take my camera out again after that. The rain enchanted me at first. But once the mist dissipated, the whole thing lost its supernatural appeal: Soon I was cycling in a nasty and in no way romantic downpour with several miles to go before the next control.






It is rather impressive how wet one can get over the course of those several miles. While my jacket was blessedly waterproof and my tights surprisingly water resistant, my shoes did not just get soaked through, they filled with water and became freezing little torture-buckets in which my feet were trapped. To make matters worse, the scenic dirt roads suddenly ended, forcing me onto a winding main road with heavy and erratic traffic. There was very poor visibility in the rain and drivers sped past sending tall sprays of disgusting water my way. With the constant traffic lights, I began to feel cold and shaky. My eyes burned around the edges, as if from a fever. Finally I approached the second control point at mile 54 ...except for me it was mile 58, as I'd accidentally done a bonus loop on one of the climbs earlier. I arrived 45 minutes after the official closing time.






The second control was a very nice restaurant with the misleadingly casual name The Village Cup. Some other riders were just leaving as I left my bike on the porch and gingerly made my way through the entrance. This was a sit-down restaurant with white table cloths, where local families had gathered for early dinner in their Sunday best. Filthy, soggy and trembling, I half expected to not be allowed in, but the management was hospitable. I found a spot in the corner of the bar and ordered hot food, anticipating that Bekka and VorpalChortle would join me soon. But as I waited for my meal, I received a message: They were at a gas station, 5 miles behind me and were not going to continue. They planned to hitch a ride back to Burlington, then return in their own car to get their bikes. If I wanted, they could then collect me and my bike as well. That sounded pretty good right about then. Butlater - after consuming a cheeseburger, a beer, and two cups of scalding hot coffee, I felt much better. I could think clearly at least. The first step was to implement Operation Plastic Bags. Retrieving the spare dry socks from my saddlebag I went into the bathroom, removed my shoes, removed my wet socks and dried my feet with paper towels. Then I put on the dry socks and over those the plastic bags, tying the handles around my ankles. Then I put my shoes back on. It was amazing! Warm, and I could not feel the wet shoes at all. At that point I realised that no part of me was really uncomfortable anymore. My tights had dried out while I sat in the restaurant. My top layers never got wet in the first place under the rain jacket. I decided to make my way to the finish on my own two wheels.






But having stayed in the restaurant for as long as I did sealed my fate of not being able to make the cutoff; with only an hour remaining on the clock and over 20 miles to go there was no way to do it now.Given that reality and the relentless downpour that awaited me, I had a genius idea: Since I would not be finishing the ride officially anyway, I could take a short cut - shaving some miles off and minimising my exposure to the terrible weather. I looked at my map, memorised the direct route, then set off. The rain was just as nasty as it had been earlier. I was cold and pedaled hard to warm up. But the shortcut turned out to be a bad idea. The road was basically a highway, and the further I rode, the worse it got. A couple of miles later I had to admit defeat. I pulled over, studied the map, and figured out how to get back on course, having done yet another bonus loop. And then, on rolling hills along paved and dirt roads, I rode the remaining 20 miles to the finish in continuous rain. There was water everywhere at this point, with messy slush along the dirt stretches. I have never cycled in worse conditions, but I can't really say I was miserable. I remember feeling great as I rolled into Burlington. At an intersection I caught a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and laughed at how wet and dirty I looked. "Girl, you are nuts!" yelled a woman from across the street cheerfully. I nodded and smiled as filthy rainwater streamed down my face. Somehow everything about this ride made sense. I arrived at the Old Spokes Home andgot my meaningless brevet card signed at the finish, just as I had done at the controls.I finished over an hour behind schedule, thus unofficially completing the course with some extra milage tacked on, for a total of 82 miles (132k) with over 50% dirt and over 6,000 feet of climbing. With all of these factors combined, plus heavy rain for the final third of the way, this was the hardest ride I have done to date. It was also the most enjoyable.






At the finish I wasn't tired. I chatted with the 100k finishers and friends of the 200k riders as we waited for the latter group to arrive. I learned that a number of riders abandoned, finding the conditions unpleasant.






But those who did finish looked pretty good. The weather had been so over the top terrible for the second part of the ride, that it was frankly funny.






One after another, riders arrived covered in mud, sand and grime, peeling off their rain jackets like some filthy bandages.






"Man, that was awful!" they would exclaim, grinning ear to ear, as they reached for a slice of post-ride pizza.






The pizzas did not last long.






As we discussed the ride, we all seemed to agree that the climbing did not feel as tough as we'd expected. It was more or less constant, but it was also well distributed. Some said they found the dirt challenging once it started to rain, but this may have been due to tire choice. I was very comfortable on these particular dirt roads in the rain.






Once all of the riders were accounted for, we took turns changing in the bathroom of the laundromat next door and eventually said our good-byes. I got a ride back to Boston with Emily and her boyfriend Jake in their rented pickup truck. We were all exhausted, and I do not envy Jake for having to drive 4.5 hours in the dark after the day we had. After rolling my cruddy bike into the house, I showered and climbed into bed after midnight. I was not physically tired, but emotionally I was drained.As I fell asleep, I found myself back in Vermont doing the ride again. I rode through mist and black rain, up and down endless hills, as my tires rolled through the slushy top layer of the smooth tan dirt. I had a control card in my pocket and it was many pages thick, like a small book.






But there I go again, drifting away from the facts. And the facts are as follows: 50 riders were expected at the Vermont Fall Classic this year. Due to the weather, the actual number at the start was 40. In the course of the ride, 10 abandoned. 12 riders finished the 200k and 14 finished the Populaire within the time limit, with an additional 4 completing the course on their own time (myself among these).There were no injuries or accidents reported.Participants traveled from all over New England and beyond, many bringing spouses and staying in the area for the weekend or longer.




I took part in the Vermont Fall Classic because it presented an opportunity to ride on dirt roads. The fact of it being an official brevet was incidental. At this stage, I am not sure that I am ready to do these kinds of rides on the clock. Not because I can't make the time limit if I try, but because these rides are too pretty and too new to be rushed through. Possibly next season I will join a few of the local brevets and see how I like those. But I can't help being more interested in the dirt roads, and regret that this kind of riding requires travel. I met some great people in Burlington, whom I would enjoy seeing again and riding with, and I know that others from Boston felt the same - it was a wonderful, welcoming atmosphere and an exciting weekend. I would like to thank organiser Mike Beganyi and the staff of the Old Spokes Home, as well as all the participants, for making this ride special and memorable. Complete set of pictures here.

Badlands :: A Prairie Dog Town

Wednesday, August 24th - - After the bison had moved along, so too did I. Traveling a short distance on the gravel road, I stopped at the Prairie Dog Town and watched the little critters for a while. Some were rather close to the road but as soon as I opened the door and stood up they all scurried off to their burrows. So I got back inside Van Dora and waited a few minutes until they decided to come back out. All of these photos are cropped, some more so than others.





Youngsters. Not sure they should go down into the safety of their burrow or stay outside. A second later and they had disappeared.





Oftentimes you see more with the camera (thank you, whomever invented the zoom lens!) than you do with the naked eye. This little fellow, and the ones below, were quite a distance from a burrow and fairly close to the road, sampling the morsels provided by Mother Nature.











It was so much fun watching these little guys. They were quick to scurry off in every direction at the lightest noise – a cough, a clearing of the throat, even sometimes the sounds of the camera.

Bee-Happy

Though I have a surprisingly good track record of notcrashing my bike, that does not mean I haven't gotten hurt cycling. And for whatever strange reason, the main cause of that hurt has been bees. That's right, bees.



For the record, until 5 years ago I have never had a problem with the stripey, fuzzy, industrious, winged little creatures. They are handsome. They are useful. And they make delicious sweet honey. But no sooner had I put foot to pedal than our relationship soured.



In Spring I was cyclingalong the Danube Bike Path outside Vienna, when a whale of a bumble bee flew directly into my face. When our worlds collided, I was going 12mph on an upright bike and it was going full bumblebee speed. It didn't sting me. It sort of bounced off my eye, just beneath the right brow bone. But the impact had such force, that I walked around with a black eye for a week. This was back when I had a 9-5 job, with an office and Important Meetings and everything. Explaining this incident - in English and German and sometimes other languages too - never failed to delight, especially when I had to resort to pantomime. Pedal-pedal-pedal... bzzz... smack, I would gesture. My audience would positively beam with understanding. Aaaaaah, yes-yes, oop-pa!



I submit to you some statistics. Before I began cycling, I'd only been stung by a bee once, maybe twice in my life. Since I began cycling? At least half a dozen times. In fact the number might be closer to 10. The first time was a shock, the second time an annoyance. After that I began to take it in stride. Still, there are a few memorable stings. Like that beautiful spring day on which I first exposed my ankles, donning 3/4 shorts instead of full length tights, only to be stung in one of said ankles, causing a baseball sized swelling. Or that time I first rode to the Fruitlands with Pamela, and, just before reaching the top of the big climb, was stung in the fold between thigh and crotch. Or the time I was stung on the palm of my hand whilst holding the handlebars and wearing cycling gloves. I admit that continuing to hold the bars for the last 20 miles home caused some whimpering.



And then there was yesterday. Just 4 miles into a 40 mile ride, I am bombing (well, okay - proceeding cautiously) downhill, when smack! A bee flies directly into my sunglasses, bouncing off the lower edge of the right lens, then off my cheekbone, before falling to the ground. At first I don't even bother slowing down. But then I realise that the creature managed to actually sting me whilst performing its death throe acrobatics. The pain is sharp, then piercing, then downright unbearable. Finally I pull over and get off the bike. By this time the right side of my face feels like it's going numb. Of all the symptoms I know associated with bee stings, this one surprises me and I calmly wonder whether Something Bad is Happening. I pull out my phone and send a text message to my husband (who has ER experience and is great for quick unsentimental feedback). I try to be precise:"stung by bee below right eye. side face numb. keep riding or seek med help?"



Unfortunately this happens in a spot with poor cell phone reception and I am not able to send the text. Or search for "bee sting, numbness" on the internet. So I decide to keep riding until I find an establishment with a bathroom where I could clean the sting and get a better look at it. This does not take long, as the area is chock full of ice cream shops and lobster shacks placed every 2/3rd of a mile or so along the coastal roads.Despite the morning hour, the nearest lobster place is already open. They have not only a bathroom but also one of those first aid ice packs that doesn't become an ice pack until you activate it. The waitresses observe with interest, elbows on the sink, as I luxuriate in their cool bathroom, washing the sunscreen and sweat and grime off my face, then applying the ice pack to the now-swollen area.



At length the numbness wears off and now only the pain of the sting remains. I reason this means I'm okay and decide to keep riding. Maybe the pain of the sting and the pain of the cycling (I plan to practice standingagain - hoping to beat my 1/2 mile at a time record) would cancel each other out. This proves a good strategy and I proceed to have a lovely ride. Later in the day the swelling and pain subside and by the time I go to bed the incident is nearly forgotten.



Alas this morning I open my eyes and discover I cannot open the right one completely. The area beneath it looks like a misshapen tomato. Apparently this is pretty normal for a bee sting under the eye; it can take up to a week for the swelling to go down. Bees!



But you know how the song goes... "when the bee stings/ my favourite things" and all that? So I went on a squinty early morning bike ride and didn't feel so bad. The Advil probably helped too.

Brevet Season Came Early

I expected my first event of the year to be the big New England Randonneurs Populaire on April 20th. But on a whim, this past Sunday I took part in a 100K Permanent to the Haystack Observatory in Westford, MA. I will save you the suspense: I did it on the clock and finished within the time limit. Counting my trip to the start and back, it was an 82 mile day.






In randonneuring vernacular, a Permanent is an officially sanctioned brevet route that can be ridden at any time (with some notice), rather than on a specific date on the established brevet calendar. Members ofRandonneurs USA (RUSA)can design their own Permanent routes of either full brevet(200K+) or Populaire (50-150K)length, and submit them for approval. The routes are then available to any member who wishes to ride them for RUSA credit, either alone or in a group. As with standard brevets, the time limits, control stops and other rules apply.






Local randonneuse Pamela Blalock has recently put together an entire series of such routes. About 100K in length starting from Lexington, MA,Pamela's Permanentsare best enjoyed as group rides and have some special features. The routes are circuitous, with a strong focus on back roads. And each route is designed around a theme destination and theme food stop. The idea is to stop at the destination long enough to enjoy it, and stop at the food stop for a sit-down meal - while still making the official cutoff times. The Haystack 100K would be the inaugural ride in this series, and I was excited bythe destination. This was my main motivator in attempting this ride so early in the year.




Having decided to try the brevet, I did not feel especially nervous. The idea of starting from a familiar place (our cycling club's "club house"), with indoor facilities and hot drinks, was comforting. Isigned up for RUSA membership the day before. On the morning of, I pedaled to the start slowly and arrived early, giving myself time between my trip there and the ride itself.






At 10:30am on a colder-than-promised morning, a small group of randonneurs had gathered. Sheepishly standing beside them was I: by far the weakest, feeblest rider present. While I braced myself for a challenge, they had clearly prepared to enjoy a relaxing little jaunt. The disparity was too hilarious to feel bad about, so I didn't. But neither did I expect to see the rest of the group for most of the ride.




We started out together, led by Pamela and Jon D-the only riders there I knew. Just for laughs Pamela was riding a fat tire cyclocross bike and Jon a vintage fixed gear. There was an experienced-looking couple on a tandem. There was a man who I was told was an exceptionally strong rider, on aRivendell3-speed with swept-back handlebars. The other two men and myself rode skinny tire roadbikes. I stayed quietly in the back, behind a fit-looking gentleman astride a Serotta.




One of the roadie men went on ahead about a mile in. The rest of us stuck together for about 10 miles. I was amazed that I was able to hang on for that long. But in truth, I was over-exerting myself for a long-haul ride, so I decided to fall back. At around the same time, the Serotta Gentleman pulled over to the side of the road to make some adjustments to his bike. And so our group split up.






For a while I rode on my own. This was a welcome break after struggling to keep up with the group, though I still tried to ride as fast as I comfortably could, without stopping. The weather encouraged this. Though the forecast predicted temps in the 50s, I had not trusted it and now I was glad of that. The day was bleak and cold (that's ice and snowback there in the bog) with gusts of wind strong enough to push my bike sideways. Luckily, my dressing strategy had me well prepared. Instead of wearing a warm winter jacket, I had worn a thin wind vest, paired with an equally thin windbreaker over it. This layering protected from the wind chill while also allowing me to pack minimally, since each of these garments could be stuffed in a jersey pocket had I needed to remove them later. I packed a small under-the-saddle wedge with tools, spare tube, extra snack, etc. I started out with two full waterbottles with some electrolyte/energy powder mixed in. I also brought lights, just in case. And scotch tape.






The scotch tape was in case I'd need extra to secure my cue sheet. As inelegant as the setup looks, this is my preferred cue sheet location (even if there is also a nice handlebar bag with map case attached!). This was my 5th ride following a cued route, and by now I know that (1) The paper cue sheet is a must, even if I have a GPS unit, and (2) In order for the cue sheet to be useful, it must be in a location that allows me to process the text at a quick glance. I hope to elaborate on all of this in a future post.






Navigating on my own was fine, with the exception of a confusing area around the first control, where I managed to go off course, lengthening my overall distance by about a mile. Here I should mention that the Haystack Permanent route was unusually rich in controls for a short brevet, which I suspect will be he case with all of Pamela's Permanents. It has to be, by virtue of the back roads design. The circuitous route creates potential short cuts, and control points ensure riders don't take advantage of them.






Contrary to what I had assumed, the control points were not at convenience stores or gas stations (in fact, I don't think we saw any of those for most of the ride!), but at completely random places in the middle of nowhere. Our brevet cards contained secret questions, and we had to search for the answers. This was not unlike a scavenger hunt, although I admit it would have been more fun in warmer weather. The coldest point of the ride was at the second control, by the side of a lake. The wind was so strong here, I could hardly hold the pen and brevet card in my hands. The light had that eerie deep-winter look to it - almost as if it might start snowing!






Soon after the second control, I noticed that I was over 20 miles into the ride - I had done a third of it. Just then, the sun came out briefly and somehow I knew that I would finish just fine. I was feeling good and fresh, despite the respectable amount of climbing. The route was described as having +3513ft of elevation over the course of 62.3 miles, and that felt about right. I thought the climbs were very humane: Just steep and long enough to require my lowest gears and some effort, but not so sharply pitched as to make me ill with that awful feeling of all the blood rushing to my head.




Which is not to say there wasn't suffering. I had determined not to bring my big camera on this ride, to ensure I'd take it seriously and do it on the clock. However, at the last moment I couldn't help it and snuck a tiny 35mm point and shoot into my jersey pocket, loaded with a roll of black and white film. I made an agreement with myself to only take pictures at the controls, where I would already be stopping, and so far I had stuck to this. But oh how I suffered through it! I suffered at the sight of dilapidated barns, rusty farm equipment, overgrown bogs, ice-covered fields, erratically winding roads. I settled into my pain and dealt with it.






But after all, I am only human. When I paused at an intersection to double-check my cue sheet, the sight of a river crossing under some ancient train cars proved too much. I took out the point-and-shoot and snapped away in a hurried frenzy. Just then I spotted the Serotta Gentleman in my view finder. He slowed down and soft-pedaled, in an invitation for me to join him. Coming up on the next control and the brevet's main attraction, I warned my new companion of my picture-taking plans there. He was amused but unfased. From that point on, we rode together.






The MIT Haystack Observatory is situated on an enormous campus that is home to a couple of climbs. The first one leads to the Westford Radio Telescope (pictured here), and the next one leads to the main research facility and the Haystack Radio Telescope (first image in this post). Cycling uphill with the telescopes looming gloriously on the horizon, framed by thick growths of pine trees, was a breath-taking, unforgettable experience. This alone made the entire ride worth it.






The Haystack observatory was built in the 1960s, as a collaboration between MIT'sLincoln Laboratoryfor the US Air Force. It is an astronomical observatory, containing two telescopes and vast research facilities.





There are also several enormous antennae - some functional and others abandoned, rusting in the nearby woods.







The research campus contains several interesting buildings - as well as military structures and vehicles. I will definitely return with some proper camera equipment.






Having passed the Haystack, we were roughly half way through the brevet. Things sped up, as we rode straight through the next control and to the food stop at mile 45. Cycling with the Serotta Gentleman felt like drifting in and out of a shared stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes we rode side by side, sometimes we rode one in front of the other, sometimes we rode spread out, while still keeping each other in sight. Sometimes we were silent, sometimes we talked, in fragmentary conversations that had no clear start or end. All this was an oddly natural and meditative experience, despite our being strangers. According to our computers, we rode faster than either had expected - which surprised us, especially considering the winds, the climbing, and the occasional cue sheet misinterpretation. Only when we approached the food stop did I begin to feel tired. But the sight of the main group of riders renewed my energy. They were leaving just as we were arriving, and all were glad to see the group together once more.






The themed food stop for this ride was at Gene's Chinese Fladbread Cafe inChelmsford, MA. While the name suggests some sort of contemporary fusion cuisine establishment, in actuality this is a very traditional place that serves a variety of dishes prepared around large, gooey noodles, made from scratch on the premises. The atmosphere was delightful: Chinese families enjoying a late Sunday lunch, and a bunch of us cyclists. The owner seemed well used to issuing receipts and signing brevet control cards!




Praising the food, Jon D. suggested we get the #4 Special, and we followed his advice. This dish turned out to be a generous bowl of garlic, which also contained a handful of said noodles. I am still not sure whether this meal recommendation was sincere, or a practical joke played on us stragglers. Drivers must have steered well clear of us on the final leg of the brevet, so mighty was our garlic breath!






It is unusual for me that a second half of a long ride goes by faster than the first. Typically it is toward the end that the aches begin, the difficulties, the tiredness, the tedium. At some point, each climb grows more unpleasant than the last, irritation sets in and enjoyment diminishes. This time, none of that happened. We had the sense that time flew, and we flew. Though the climbs kept coming until the very end, they did not bother me. That is not to say I was fast, only that I really did not mind the climbing. If anything, it was the descents that were my weakness. There were a few spots on this ride with tightly winding downhill stretches, that I am not skillful enough to navigate without reducing speed considerably. As far as safety, this is where my GPS unit was extremely helpful: I could see the curves coming up and regulated my speed accordingly.






The finish snuck up on us. Pamela managed to route the final leg of the ride through a stretch of back roads I did not immediately recognise. And before I knew it, I saw there were no more cue sheets and my computer stated we'd ridden over 60 miles. Several miles later, we turned the corner to see the Ride Studio Cafe just down the street. Reeking of garlic and quietly beaming with satisfaction, we wheeled our bikes in at 5:00pm on the dot to submit our tattered control cards.




My computer read 64.3 miles at the finish, and 6.5 hours had elapsed since the start. That's an average speed of 9.9 mph, including all stops and the sit-down meal. My average moving speed over the course of the ride was 13.2 mph.






After handing in my control card, I hung around drinking tea and babbling excited non-sense for a half hour, then cycled home. After an 80+ mile day, I felt suspiciously fine. I got home before dark, washed, changed, and went out for a nice evening walk with my husband. I kept expecting the exhaustion and pain to hit me, but it never did. The next day was very busy, but I had no trouble waking up before 7am and doing everything on my schedule. Again, I kept expecting to feel the aftereffects of the Permanent in my body, but it never happened.




What I did feel, was a lingering sensation of a very physical, feverish sort of post-ride euphoria, like I was hopped up on some drug and couldn't come down. To some extent this showed in my face - which had a swollen, reddish look to it for some time afterward - and in my eyes, which looked unnaturally shiny and glazed over. Whatever high I was on, it is possible that it dulled any sense of post-ride pain I would have otherwise experienced.




And so that is the story of my first "on the clock" ride. For anyone local considering the Haystack Permanent, I highly recommend it for those who enjoy scenic, low-traffic routes along back roads.The Haystack Observatory and Gene's Chinese Flatbread Cafe are worth savoring.There are no unpaved stretches along this route; skinny tires are fine. The climbing is reasonable, with no overly sharp pitches. Things to be aware of are the frequent controls, the lack of food-buying opportunities other than Gene's, and the handful of curvy descents. I am so pleased to have been a part of this ride, and heartily thank everyone involved for this special day!