Dubstoevsky's Folly and the Gift of a Late Season Ride

Some say El Nino is responsible for the ridiculously mild weather that's settled into the Northeast. Others suggest climate change, still others the beneficence of the Cycling Gods. The why doesn't really concern me, but taking advantage of the situation does and so I arranged with the Virginian to meet Saturday morning, December 12, at Lake Matawa in Orange, Massachusetts for a lengthy training ride into territory heretofore unexplored.

I proposed a route that would take us north, climbing steadily out of Orange and that would eventually lead us to Richmond, in southern New Hampshire, at which point we would start to arc our way back southward. We'd been on a few of the proposed roads before (Wheeler Rd, Tully Rd) but much of the route, particularly everything in New Hampshire, would be new. I'd photocopied a portion of the map quadrant from the New Hampshire Gazetteer that showed the area we'd be passing through, plus I had google maps on my IPhone. What could go wrong? It all seemed straightforward.

An incredible day. I actually overdressed and had to strip down a layer before setting out, so warm was the sun and balmy the air. A very unlikely day in mid December, 52 degrees, no wind, few clouds. Cycling perfection!

Wheeler Rd, off rt. 2A, heads north and is a mostly steady climb, all of it nicely paved, bereft of cars, surrounded by forest. Because all the leaves are off the trees, you can see the landscape, its contours, its stonewalls and old foundations, its rolling, rumpled ridges. This is one of the glories of 'winter' riding - unimpeded views into the woods that line the roads.

The Virginian leading the way up Wheeler Rd

Everything went perfectly for an hour or so. Wheeler Rd lead to Tully Rd which lead to Bliss Hill Rd which truly was bliss, a gorgeous empty road through the forest, super steep and challenging. And then it turned into dirt. But not a loose, gravelly dirt, no, the conditions were perfect - well-packed, slightly damp, smooth. We ended up on many dirt roads as you'll see and, thanks and praises to the Cycling Gods, surface conditions on all of them were excellent. In fact, many were so smooth and packed that we likened it to riding on a gymnasium floor or a velodrome lap - polished & with just a hint of spongy softness.

Bliss Hill Rd, the paved portion

Bliss Hill Rd, well-packed dirt

We reached NH feeling great and rushed northward on the main road, rt. 32 until it intersected in Richmond with rt. 119. We decided to go further north to Sandy Pond Rd which skirts the southern edge of the Franconia Mountain Range where we'd then start to loop back south. It all seemed quite clear on the map.

Alas, here is where things began to go awry. Sandy Pond Rd proved easy to find, though not before hurtling down some absolutely monster descents on rt. 32 that had me thinking to myself "Holy shit, this is steep, I'm glad we won't have to climb back up this way!"

Not too far along Sandy Pond Rd, we were on dirt again. Forests along both sides. A couple weird intersections that we thought we interpreted correctly. Down down down slightly rougher dirt roads, thick forest on either side, no visible signs of habitation or farmland or much of anything.

Sandy Pond Rd

Deeper into the woods than we'd anticipated

Finally we stopped. We considered the map. It was hard to decipher where exactly we were, but then we realized that we'd taken a wrong turn at some point. Instead of having reached the furthest point of our intended route and being on the road back, we were, in fact, going the wrong way, and had been for some time. With several miles of descending on dirt road behind us, we realized we were heading north when we should have been heading south. Groan!

Nearly the entire ride to this point had involved climbing and the realization came over us that we were now lost in the Franconia Mountain Range and suddenly time took on a bit of urgency. Still only 1:00 or so, we knew that dusk comes by 4:00 and neither of us had prepared for riding in the gloaming (the Virginian's small blinking red tail light was hopelessly dim, in need of batteries; I hadn't brought any lights at all).

Finally, we figured out a way out, but one that would mean continuing north a little further, then essentially coming out on rt. 32 eight miles north of where we'd first turned off. It meant having to climb the very hills I'd remarked upon to myself earlier. But there was nothing to be done about it but press on.

Once, decades ago, the Virginian and I had gotten lost mountain biking. He'd assured me he knew the trails and the wood roads. That ride too was late in the season but on a colder, more wintry day. In fact, at one point deliberating over the map, it started to snow. We'd pressed on then too, only to come out to a location miles and miles from where we'd parked. That ride turned into a desperate slog back through the gloaming and the cold, both of us chilled and whipped. I chided the Virginian about that ride for years.

But here we were on a new debacle, the ride I'd envisioned now completely FUBAR. This is how this ride has now become Dubstoevsky's Folly, or just Dub's Folly, for short. We'll be joking about it for years to come, no doubt.

Nevertheless, we righted our ship and reclaimed the day. Once we figured out where we were and realized that we would not be stuck out after dark, we dug in our proverbial heals and, with renewed energy, pedaled enthusiastically on. After all, the whole day was something of a gift. A sunny, fifty degree day in December? On a Saturday? With no snow whatsoever to date? Incredible.

Crossing the Miller's River

When all was said and done, and when we finally got back to the cars, we'd covered 54 miles, much of it climbing, and been in the saddle for almost four hours. An epic day.