Ride #'s 45 & 46: The Wild Blue Yonder and the Blooming of Spring

The Beginning of Real Spring
Saturday Afternoon 4:30
75 degrees and humid

Ride #45 on Saturday afternoon was, by necessity, a wink and breath, nothing more. 9.8 miles, a quick ride to keep the metabolism firing at a high cadence. There was no time for a real ride. I always held 10 miles as the minimum requirement to qualify as a numbered ride so I lump Saturday's by-necessity quick 9.8 time trial up to Sholan Farms and back into the two overall weekend rides. One was brief, the other massive.

Late Saturday before the imminent arrival of dinner guests, I undertook the Brief Sprint for Metabolism Enervation, an insistent dash to Sholan Farm when prudence suggested that I should not. I flew in the shadow of thunder gods, clouds of plentiful ire. It was fantastic.

In the Ire of Thor Hushovd, the God of Thunder

Sunday was something else entirely. Ride #46, early afternoon, the day an absolute gem of a Sunday in May. The quintessential Mother's Day. Total blue sky. A deep, rich blue. NO clouds. Consequently, completely sunny. The Unadulterated Sun of Plenty. And warm! 80 degrees. Vast.

Vast

I wanted to go BIG today, do either a lot of miles or a lot of climbing. It turned out to be climbing, 3100 feet (according to my strava reading), a three hour ramble that took in the Drumlin in Lancaster, a hefty stretch of rt 62 in Princeton, a determined grind on Mountain Rd, the Summit Rd climb, and Upper Justice Hill Rd on the way back to Chez Shad.

Ended up with a fantastic day in the saddle on the best weather day of the year. A Vitamin D debauch. I yearned to absorb the light and the air as I zipped through it at 20 mph. I was a blur, a hurtling succulent sluicing in every sunbeam and every wind gust that exploded around the mountain and crashed into me. Wind! Light! Air! The planet!

And birds. A raven, a robin, a red-winged black bird. A red tail hawk. Innumerable small sparrows a-flutter from road side to shrub.

The sun boomed. The wind gusted.

Today's meandering path to the mountain top took me past Sholan Farms and then south to Lancaster for a Drumlin drive-by, then across the wide Davis Farm Stand flats to the center of Sterling. Out the other side quickly and a meditative if arduous march upwards in the general direction of The Mountain (the quarry) on roads relatively new to me. At one point I rode a ways on the narrow and cracked tarmac of Redemption Rock Trail and then logged several miles on equally narrow and dicey rt. 62. Those are the sinewy & dangerous tendons that stitch together fantastic meanders like today's. You undertake them with an equanimity of spirit and pedal with tenacity and a concern for the Most High.

Then it was The Mountain. Mont Vontusett. The Wachusett. The coup de climb. The gates still closed so no motor vehicles. Pavement smooth and clean. A joy of an ascent.

Summit

I achieved the hat trick. Thrice in a week I spun my wheels on Wachusett's rocky dome. Which is telling. Making a direct foray to the top of Wachusett, a 27 mile round trip ride, used to be a killer. Now? Today I finished with 42 miles and though I definitely felt like I did a huge ride, I didn't feel sapped of energy or bodily beaten down; I felt tired in a good way. I was hungry. And very much alive.

In the Great Blue Yonder

Ride Summary: 42.44 miles (67 K), 14.3 mph, a whisper shy of three hours astraddle. Windy! Plenty of head winds made several stretches additionally challenging. Great views from Wachusett. Clear air, not too humid. Mt. Monadnock clear and looming to the north.

Road Kill: Snakepocalypse. Three snakes today. The first one I came upon must have been killed within the hour; I was that close to saving it. The second and third were slain just a few feet apart at Bartlett Pond Brook on Hobbs Rd. Ugly business.

Snake # 1, a garter snake

Snake # 2, a water snake

Snake # 3, another garter snake

Parting Shot

Shad rides but Nature calls

Ride # 33: Ever Larry

Big Balmy. Thursday afternoon, 3:30 or so
plenty of sun, a breeze, low 60s

The Rasputitsa looms close now. Nine days. Close enough to start watching the extended forecast. Right now, wundergound.com is calling for "Intervals of clouds and sunshine. High 56F. Winds S at 5 to 10 mph" for race day, Saturday, April 19.

Okay, I can take that. Each day between now and then also stands to be above freezing, some days bright with sun. It sounds like the race will befit its name.

Here's a recent interview with the founders of this madness, Heidi Myers and Anthony Moccia.

Today? A Drumlin Ramble. The big sun, the balmy blowing breeze, the blue skies. Dubstoevsky combing the hills for Akhmatova.

Not Tom Boonen or Thor Hushovd
Just a local Drumlin Shad

Plenty of soaring turkey vultures throughout the ride, great shadows swaying on air streams low above the fields. Late in the ride, a great blue heron loping through the blue sky.

Note on the title of this post: 33. That was Larry Bird's number. It's talismanic, sacred, numerologically significant. Today's ride, # 33 of 2014, while not particularly galvanizing, magical, or even metaphorically apt, nonetheless bears the pure number combination of the double 3. There's a local brewery here that makes a "Larry" IPA. While it has nothing to do with Larry Bird, with 33, or with almost anything else pertinent to this post, it is, I must say, a fine drink and one in which I imbue significance without rationality. It comes in black cans with some green thrown in and says "Larry" in black on a yellow background. Whenever Boston (or New England) sports teams are competing in playoffs, I recommend drinking Larrys while watching the game.

Ride Summary: 25.68 miles (40 K), 13.3 mph, almost 2 hours of riding. No road kill. A day of peace and the iration.

Parting Shot

Shadows of the Drumlin

Ride # 27: Drumlin Ramble

Saturday, March 29, 12:30, high 40s

I'd intended to ride big this weekend but then allowed myself to be diverted from that plan and instead I drove to the coast of Maine, Kittery Point, for an ad hoc gathering of old book-selling friends. That meant that I only got out for a couple hours.

But fine hours they were. Despite being dressed in full tights and skullcap and lemon/lime insulated windbreaker zip-up top, it's really no longer winter and I can no longer construe these rides as "winter riding." We have definitely crossed over into rough spring. Today for example was almost warm in the high 40s ... and yet it still held a lap dog's snarl and nip so you had to be careful not to under dress.

Headed out into the hills which, I now realize, are actually the Sterling Hills as well as the Princeton Hills. It depends on where in the hills you are. "Hey! Wheren' th' hill am I?" Ha.

Naked Drumlin

In a weird sort of suddenness, large swathes of bare ground have emerged. The Dexter Drumlin is completely bare. The Davis Farm lands are bare, big expanses of dun flank.

On this Saturday in late March the light is completely flat, not a shadow cast from the gauzy thick sky. An overcast of maudlin wan. The roadsides are etched by corroded snow banks, dull in muddy gouache. Every edge is round.

I see other riders today, several different encounters but they're all going the opposite direction. No rabbits to chase.

No road kill either. But plenty of live pigeons, doves, robins, blue jays, starlings, cardinals.

Ride Stats: 30.93 miles (48 k), 14 mph, 2 hours and a few minutes.

Ride # 15: Shad Dart on a Gray Landscape

February 27, 3:00 PM

The ride is over now, I've done this one, it's in the books and on Shad Rides. I'm sitting at a kitchen table, quiet in the aftermath of dinner, listening to a live Dead show from the Pauley Pavillion at UCLA, November 17, 1973.

It was mostly overcast today, raw, gray. Between 1:00 and 2:00 snow flurries drifted through. The sun pulsed faintly from behind the gauze. For a brief few minutes just as I was about to launch the sun came out and shone like an omen of encouragement (above). Then it got swallowed up again for most of the rest of the ride. Swathes of flat grays and ashy creams. Dull gray puff skies. Crusty old snow pack like concrete. Dirty white crust across a rolling landscape into Lancaster, the Drumlin, the Princeton Hills, Lemonstar.

The Drumlin, Lancaster

At a certain point, cognizant of my hyper glowing limon neon top, I thought to myself - My god! I am a shad dart in an icy & clear water river and I'm being reeled along in a jagged fashion by a madman with a rod and reel and everything is basically tones of black & white, yet I am a neon abomination darting and flying through the sameness.

Shaddy Shad Dart

Of course, visibility is the key to continuing on with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. At least in amateur cycling. At one point tonight I should have turned right, essentially rounding the corner of the ride and pointing it homeward. I would have gotten home with plenty of light.

But training for the Rasputitsa is not about getting home with plenty of light

I opted for more climbing and a further loop. The cloudy over cover made it darker than it should have been and the yeasty flat sun sinking ever lower couldn't quite make it bright anymore and after a certain point I was psyched to have my flashing red tail light, my maniacally flashing rear helmet light, and my icy blue/white face-forward handlebar light. With all the blinking and flashing and the eye-popping limon top I felt pretty safe. Only a karma shot for transgressions unknown could derail the last leg of the ride, the dash down out of the hills and through the Grove St neighborhood and past Doyle Field to Shad Lane and the home hearth.

Back Before Dark

In the long run, I was right in my choices. Even my garb. I added in a layer of old school duofold underwear and also slid a paper bag in place. Donned a skull cap, a head & face mask, and a bandanna. And a helmet. Not too bulky at all. A pulsing limon-glowing wheelmon of the irie forward motion. It was 30 degrees (-1 C) when I passed Landmark Storage on my way through the Lemonstar 'hood and it was 24.6 (-4.1 C) when I got home. Crisp, righteous, a joy. I was almost overdressed. Never once cold. Positively Icelandic. Which is to say embracing the elements, a celebration of the Great Gift.

And then there was the business of dinner. Knowing I'd be hungry when I got back I'd thawed a package of beef liver that I scored for free last week when picking up the monthly meat & poultry CSA share. There are always free frozen parts available including (I found out this time) whole lamb's heads. I hear that the cheek meat is excellent - succulent cheek meat of the roasted head. But that's getting ahead of the story of ride # 15.

Tonight, a simple cast iron skillet dish done on the grill.

sliced onions & red peppers (olive oil'd)
slices of beef liver each the size of two shad darts end to end
three cloves of garlic chopped roughly
lots of paprika (smoked or sweet or both)
sea salt
pepper ground like dirt
bacon grease

Beef liver from John Crow Farm, before being sliced

Spice the ingredients accordingly. Fire up a hot grill. Put the cast iron skillet on it and get it hot. Add onions and peppers. 7 minutes, stirring plenty. Remove the onions and peppers from the skillet and add the liver. Cook 30-45 seconds on one side. Tend it closely. With tongs flip each piece. Don't overcook. Know the liver.

Added to the overall Platter of Plenty, crispy pan sauteed chickpeas and sauteed crimini and shitake mushrooms.

Sauteed mushrooms, crisped chickpeas,
beef liver with red pepper and onions

 The Reward

Ride Stats: 25.75 miles (41k), 13.3 mph, almost 2 hours riding. Felt great. Power in the climbs toward the end. But extremely cautious on all down hills and at any hint or suggestion of frozen wet surface. Careful and fearful of the white line.

Now the Bad News. Road kill. Another opossum. WARNING: Grisly crime scene photos below.

Opossum, Sterling, MA Feb 27, 2014

Opossum, Sterling, MA Feb 27, 2014

Drumlin Ramble, Ride # 94

A drumlin, according to one online dictionary, is "a long, narrow or oval, smoothly rounded hill of unstratified glacial drift." Fair enough.

There's one in nearby Lancaster at the base of George Hill Rd and across from the campus of what was once the Atlantic Union College. Called the Dexter Drumlin, the huge graceful mound swells upward like an earthen great blue whale.

The Drumlin

I like to ride by there from time to time. Any ride that takes in the Dexter Drumlin I call a Drumlin Ramble. Ride #94 on a sunny, not exactly warm, but bright Saturday afternoon was one such ramble.

Earlier in the year, maybe late April, I'd ridden the Crust over there and ridden right up to the top and, though it's a very gradual slope and doesn't appear, from the base, to be that high, from the top the view is sweeping and far. This time, though, on my road bike, I contented myself with a view from the base.

As I type this entry a day after the ride, I'm looking out on a covering of snow that came overnight. And, it's 21 degrees F outside and blustery. It may warm up some this week and rain but seeing the snow cover this morning suggests to me that I may not manage another six rides before Christmas. Nevertheless, on yesterday's Drumlin Ramble I was dressed perfectly so wasn't cold at all and didn't mind, for example, slogging into a head wind across the wind open expanse of farmland that takes you over the hill and into the town of Sterling.

The shaggy Scottish Highland cattle didn't seemed perturbed by the gusts or chill either and grazed without looking up to acknowledge my shouted "bonjour!"s.

Farm of the Scottish Highlanders

Heading Toward Sterling

The gusty wind combined with a lot of climbing (a Drumlin Ramble, like a Sholan Loop, takes me west of Lemonstar and into hill country), made for a slow average speed (just about 14 mph). About three quarters of the way through the ride, I started to get chilled; not badly, but my fingers got pretty numb. No surprise why; I checked the temperature after returning and it had fallen to 36 F.

 Ride Stats: Ride # 94, 28 miles (45 km), 14 mph, 2 hours in the saddle. 44 degrees to start and 36 degrees at ride's end.