Rides Since the Rasputitsa: Back on the Road

Old Stone Church, West Boylston
April 27, 2016
On the shore of Wachusett Reservoir

Dubstoevsky and Team Shad have not been idle since completing the Rasputitsa. The Conweegian Hammer has returned to the hills of western Mass, joined Strava as Wing Nut, and has turned his full attention to the road and to the svelte goodness of his brand new Cervelo frame. I, Dubstoevsky, am back in Woo City and have also shifted focus to the road bike, and to availing myself of the evening light and the surfeit of riding opportunities inside and outside the city limits.

Cases in point - the Monday night group ride from Barney's Bikeshop, a spirited 18 mile loop around Holden Reservoir; and the Wednesday night group ride out of West Boylston that meets on the shore of Wachusett Reservoir. I rode with each group this past week and acquitted myself well each time by managing to stay with the advanced group of riders and even attacking occasionally, particularly toward the top of arduous climbs.

Getting underway

Here's the thing I'm learning about group rides - they are friendly, supportive, and .... competitive. It's all nicey nice in the beginning and at the end but once you're out on the road, it's every rider for him/herself. And there are some strong riders that like to push the pace.

Take the Wednesday night ride for example, my first time with this group. Wednesday night is a longer ride than Monday night, and goes through West Boylston, Sterling, Princeton with a fair amount of rolling terrain but not a lot of climbing. Of the group of ten, two active racers (including a guy named Tiago) set the pace and stayed pretty far out in front; a gruppetto of six (myself included) stayed mostly together, cruising between 15 and 17 mph; and two guys dropped off the back and rode the course on their own.

I happened to be feeling pretty strong Wednesday and so attempted several times to bridge the gap between the gruppetto and the two Big Dawgs. I succeeded at least once but it's an amazing thing to make a giant successful effort to hook up with a pair of steadily fast riders only to realize "Holy shit, now I havta' maintain this fuckin' pace!"

So despite the modest accomplishment of launching off the front of the gruppetto, any back-patting I gave myself was swiftly quashed and I found myself laboring mightily to stay attached. That didn't last for long. One slip of concentration, one hesitation on a downhill curve, and whoosh! they were gone and I was alone in no man's land.

At times it was exasperating to be heaving and hammering with everything in the tank and not make up any ground at all. Not to mention the fact that when I was maxing out in the red zone the two riders ahead pedaled with a steady but nonchalant cadence that suggested that they might just be warming up. I kept willing myself to pedal harder, to find the right rhythm and stick with it, yet my physical self ignored my mental edicts. "Fuck it," my body said, "you're getting everything outa' me that you're gonna' get!"

At the end of the ride, I'd averaged 17.1 mph, by far one of the fastest extended efforts in Dubstoevsky's database of average ride speeds, so I was content.

So what comes next?

Dub trout

I was supposed to drive to Brooklyn tomorrow to take in the Red Hook Crit as a spectator but those plans have been scrapped and the weekend now yawns wide open in front of me. It's a no brainer. Tomorrow's forecast is 60 degrees with no precip and there's nothing on the schedule, so .... maybe I'll have a go at the May Gran Fondo Challenge from Strava. Or maybe I'll head up to the Mont Vonchusett and see if the road to the summit is open yet.

Whatever ends up happening will surely involve a bicycle, a Dubstoevskian shad, and an imaginary world of cycling hubris.

Notes

On a 32 mile solo ride Thursday (Rutland Loop), I noticed lots of birds, most exciting of which was a an eastern bluebird which flew beside me along the edge of a field before coming to light in a tree. But many of the usual ornithological suspects made their presence known including Canada geese, red-winged blackbirds, crows, grackles, starlings, mallard ducks, blue jays, house sparrows, and cardinals.

Spring awakens. Lime green hues blush the hardwoods but you can still see deep into the forest along the roadside. You can still see the rock walls that stitch up craggy slopes toward higher ridges. You can sense the coming density, the closing in, the landscape filling out.

Wachusett Reservoir
April 27, 2016

Rasputitsa 2016: Part II

The first 13.5 miles unfolded on dirt ridge roads opposite the looming Burke Mountain with its white snow slope gashes to the east. We would get there eventually, but for a while we rode with it on the horizon, a reminder of the challenge to come.

Burke Mountain

At one point we turned onto Bugbee Crossing Rd and I thought of the the Jamaican tribute to Bingy Bunny, Kingston 12 Toughie, a reggae album I bought years ago and still own.

This is the kind of stuff one thinks about briefly when it emerges from the flux of the pedaling life. Randomness flutters to the surface of the Long Crank, and then is gone. Bugbee Bingy Bunny Crossing.

Then an intersection and the dependable race volunteers directing us through & onto Brook Rd which led to Carter Rd (for whom did Jimmy Carter NOT come to mind?) and the first suggestions of softer, meltier dirt roads to come.

The Virginian (r) in the early mud

"Rasputitsa" of course means "mud season" but the difference between this year and last (I gather) is like the difference between a Trump rally and a Grateful Dead show circa 1972. The former, a macabre slurry of dangerous conditions and possible weather violence; the latter, a sunshine daydream. We did not yet realize, after a thousand feet or so of climbing on mostly tight-packed and sun-shaded road surfaces, that when the race turned eastward on Victory Rd and began to ascend, conditions would change quickly. The race's namesake would make sense at last. Except without the rawness and cold.

Cake frosting

Rather, in the midst of melt, with the sun blasting down unobstructed by cloud for two and a half days, the road surfaces were like foam playground mats, soft and spongy. sodden in many places as if smeared with milk chocolate cake batter several inches thick. Victory Rd then River Rd then Victory Hill Rd, the gloppy faces of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches slathered the roadway and we were forced to slap and sluice our way through. Low gear relentless turning of the pedals on the soft steep upticks, looking for the right line through the flat-faced line trenches of tire tracks and skid smears on the way down the other side. Finally just accepting the danger of slipping and mud-planting in exchange for the Fearless Plunge ahead.

Except even then, those of us who didn't ride last year had no idea of the relentless climbs looming ahead. We found a groove. At one point, several riders passed us and the Virginian, who'd spent an inordinate amount of time in arrears to that point (he'd confided yesterday to the Team Shad medical staff that he'd been feeling under the weather all week), said "Hey, that group has a good rhythm going, we should stay with them."

On board and headed past

I took his meaning and kicked it up a notch, fairly soon catching a trio of riders who themselves had briefly fallen away from the two stalwarts up ahead. I went passed the three, pulling the Virginian with me, and grabbed hold of the final two. Together, we sped across a coarse recently graded road surface toward what we knew loomed ahead, Cyberia, that stretch of ridiculous difficulty that, last year, with several feet of snow on the ground, was un-rideable. Riders carried their bikes up and over the pass, more than a mile. But not this year.

No, this year it was all about the steepness and the length. Strava lists the Victory Hill-Masten-KirbyMtnRd climb as a category three. This year, conditions were ideal. At that juncture, still together, Team Shad sped forward on the attack. It was time to gain any ground that could be gained.

Upward

Upward

Upward
Virginian (left, having shed his neon lime windbreaker)

I loved the climb. A huge climb late in a ride suits me. I'm no Charly Gall but I made do with my limited gifts and held steady where others walked, gritted it out where others struggled and failed. At a certain point, I left the Virginian behind, not on purpose but because I felt good and by the time I realized he was no longer with me, it was too late. Later, he would exact payback by attacking in the last eight miles and dropping me, but that was yet to come.

The Virginian reaching for maple syrup atop Cyberia

The going up of Cyberia demanded a descent down the other side that proved far worse than the dogged, gear-grinding climb. Long & sometimes steep, utterly-melted and slopped, the 4x4 path downhill was a monstrosity of gloppy ozzing suck ruts. Some were deeper, some not so much; some seemed safe, others promised certain carnage. Thankfully, the long climb through Cyberia to the iced maple syrup shots at the very top broke up any semblance of gruppetto so that the descent down the other side was pretty much without company.

I am not a skilled descender, nor one prone to taking risks. If I have a forte, it is going uphill, not down. So it was with considerable caution that I raced down the mud slide that was the Cyberian descent. In mid-plummet I realized that, had the thick ruts and wheel gullies I skittered through been frozen, there would have been serious carnage. But aside from some minor thigh & calf cramping from gripping the bike steady to maintain a straight line in the mucky moil, I navigated the sloppy drop off of Burke Mt. without mishap or unmanageable trauma.

The descent from Cyberia

Shortly thereafter the Virginian struck. Though I'd waited for him in the early goings when he was struggling to find his comfort zone, after the conquering of Cyberia, he seemed energized, impatient. On the descent, he rode off ahead, steadily, determined. I tried to keep him in sight but much of the remaining road was downhill and he is a wilier and more fearless descender than I. He kept going and was soon gone. Right about that time my water bottle cage began rattling, an unfortunate development because my pump was attached to my bike via the water bottle cage and with the whole contraption awry, my ability to pedal was threatened. Foolishly, I didn't have an allen wrench with me so couldn't tighten it myself.

I got off my bike and did my best to tighten it with my fingers. I could make it to the end, I thought. But if I went all-out on the washboard downhills, the whole thing might come undone. There was nothing to do but ride it out and hope for the best. And to chase after the Virginian under the long rolling stretches of big Vermont sky with the jet plane contrails and the open vistas of blue landscape light.

In pursuit

Inside three miles to go

I never saw the Virginian again until the end, until I was sprinting up the cracked pavement of the finishing line, then under the banner and through the timing point, and there he was, smiling broadly, cheering on his team leader like a blood brother.

The Conwegian Hammer (pronounced "Con WEE gee an") topped Dubstoevsky by 1 minute and forty seconds.

The Conwegian Hammer

The Virginian - #290 (3.10.02)
Dubstoevksy - #295 (3.11.42)

Full Race Results

Rasputitsa 2016 Part I

Rasputitsa 2016: Part I

Cretaceous Shad

There are sculptures in the yard in front of the public library in East Burke, just a couple hundred yards away from the Rasputitsa gathering spot in the parking lots behind the Publick House. One of the sculptures is of a large fish crafted from tin and metal scraps. Though resembling a barracuda with its torpedo-shaped body and thrusting lower jaw, I knew immediately that it was an ancestral shad, probably a Cretaceous Period prototype that possibly even swam through these craggy mountain up-swellings tens of thousands of years ago when this whole Northeast Kingdom was underwater.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps I was imagining too vividly, reaching too far across the spectrum of reason for omens that might suggest clues to the race ahead. I'm prone to such behavior. I take comfort in noticing spontaneous appearances of the number combination, 33. I covet espying wild creatures on the go, as occurred Friday afternoon when I was checking out some of the course and a red fox loped out of a field, crossed the road in front of me, and disappeared down the wooded ravine. I tend to think that if I pay close enough attention I will glean insight that otherwise would remain concealed within the chaotic & kaleidoscopic fabric of everyday Reality.

Team Shad

Encouraged by the fox sighting and convinced of the magic power of the Cretaceous Shad, I felt confident and ready. We were a team of two: I, Dubstoevsky, and the Conwegian Hammer (i.e., a denizen of Conway), affectionately known by fans across the globe as "the Virginian." This was the beginning of the season, the first of the Big Three events on Team Shad's race schdule, and instead of the icy/slushy/muddy savagery that's to be expected of the Rasputitsa, this year's iteration was a complete anomaly.

"Enjoy the incredible weather!" the race organizer told the huge throng of waiting riders, "because it will never be like this again!"

Indeed. By race start, the sun was above the mountain rim and pouring down on the assembled mass of madly-colored cyclists, removing all hint of chill from the air. There was no detectable wind and the only visible snow was on the ski slopes on Burke Mountain.

Pre-race staging ground

Smoke drifted across the parking lots from the bonfires race organizers had lit earlier in the morning lending the scene a slightly surreal aura, like something of out "Apocalypse Now." A small drone with a camera buzzed overhead, filming the crowd of riders. The Virginian gave it the finger.

Everyone was eager to get underway. It seemed incredible that this third iteration of the Rasputitsa would take place under such gentle conditions - like a de-clawed tiger, or near beer. And yet no one complained. To the contrary, sunny dispositions matched the sunny sky. Several riders around us who'd ridden last year when conditions were more winter-like than early spring with icy, frozen ground and thick snow on the stretch known as Cyberia, shook their heads in contented wonder.

Start line, sans corrals

Interestingly, the organizers had indicated that there would be corrals in which riders would gather themselves depending on their presumed time & ability. We glanced around for such corrals but they were, apparently, a chimera that lived only in the imagination of the race committee. It was just a huge gathering of cyclists stretching a hundred yards or so back from the start line, and so we simply insinuated ourselves into the mix around midway.

Finally, the prerequisite race announcements, thank-you's, and reminders done with, it was time to get underway! The mass of cyclists fidgeted into action with a cacophony of cleats clicking into pedals and a collective inhale and exhale of breath and, in fits and starts, we lurched en masse into motion.

In the neutral zone

Though the first two miles were ostensibly neutral during which we'd follow a lead-out car up paved Burke Hollow Rd., the peloton quickly unfolded into a long, loosely-connected train. The immediate instinct is to push hard quickly and try to get ahead of ... whoever is around you. It's a race, after all. But to do so is a mistake, and I reminded myself of that as the Virginian and I pedaled along in a moderate cadence. The race would be long and, as wily veterans, we both knew that the race would not be won in the first few miles but that it could be lost there. So we kept ourselves in check and warmed up at a comfortable pace. Plenty of those who passed us, we knew we'd be seeing again, probably as we passed them on the long, torturous slopes of Cyberia three quarters of the way through.

The real racing kicked in when the peloton turned left onto East Darling Hill Rd, a dusty, dry ridge road that rolled up and down for a few miles and which further split the race apart. The riders far off the front were the Kings and Queens of the race, the ones who would finish in just over two hours (!), the Elite. They were not our quarry. We knew that we were not racing against them. Rather, we were competing against ourselves, and against the rest of the enthusiastic and relentless amateurs that made up the bulk of the race, probably 375 riders or so of the more than 500 total participants.

End of Part I

Rasputitsa 2016: Part II

The Hunt for the Holy Grail (of Beer)

Travel day, into the Green Mountain State, north toward the Northeast Kingdom, toward the staging grounds for the Rasputitsa. But before all mental and spiritual energy lasers in on the race, another quixotic adventure comes first, the hunt for the holy grail of beer, the Heady Topper, that elusive IP brewed in Waterbury and not widely distributed. It's impossible to procure beyond a 50 mile radius (or less) of the Alchemist Brewery. However, with Friday delivery schedule in hand, I flogged the Team Shad car north with abandon, determined to arrive in Heady Land before all the day's offerings were gone.

Cruel fate presented itself at the first stop, the Sunflower Cooperative (or something like that). I pulled into the parking lot around 11:30 and saw a dude putting a four pack of the Topper into the trunk of his car. But when I went inside I was dealt a blow - all the Topper was gone!

Low grade panic began to set in. What if I were too late? What if I'd miscalculated and detoured all this way to Heady Land in vain? I shuddered, rushed for the car, backed up at high speed and, in a shower of gravel and dust, sped north on rt. 100 toward the next option.

Heady in the Window

That proved to be the Cold Hollow Cider Mill and, OMG, there it was, the Topper! But a limit to one 4 pack per person. Done. The success proved stimulating and off I went to Stowe to check some other locations. I didn't have to go further than the Mountain Cheese & Wine Shop. There, a very friendly woman overseeing a shop well-stocked with fine cheeses and excellent wines, pointed out the Heady Topper at the bottom of the beer cooler.

"What's my limit?" I asked, overjoyed by finding another batch.

"Well," she said "Normally it's two 4 packs per person but it seems like it's going to be slow around here so if you want to get a whole case, you're welcome to it."

Ka-CHING! Sold!

One more stop after that yielded one additional four pack and, coolers laden, I pointed the team car east toward Lyndon.

The Team Car in front of room #9

Got to Lyndon by 2:30 and found the classically timeless Lyndon Motor Lodge. As luck would have it, there had been a cancellation so a second room was available. I quickly reserved it for the Virginian so now both Shad riders have their own accommodations.

Then it was off to check out the registration area, the departure zone, and the course, at least some of it. Everything was easy to find and the vibes were good along the road. Not to mention that it was a stellar day, clear and bright and dry.

With the Niceness!

Now, hunkered down at the Lyndon Motor Lodge, the internet connection is dodgy and it's getting late and time to turn in for the night. Tomorrow, the Big Race!

Rasputitsa Training Camp II

Team Shad April 10, 2016

The second and last training run for Team Shad, 32 miles through forest and ravines and up steep hills in Wendell, Shutesbury, and Montague. 2500+ elevation, not exactly the Rasputitsa simulation we'd aimed for but in the end it was enough. Coming less than 24 hours after yesterday's 42 mile road ride, I hadn't fully recovered so the 32 hard miles today were enough. The Virginian felt the same, having thrashed himself good on Friday.

A chilled sunny day, high 30s early on and mid 40s at the high point of the mid afternoon, those puffy white clouds accentuating the blueness of the sky. Miles of forest roads, conifer stands along either side casting shadowed patterns on moist way paths. Creeks flowing alongside in audible granite'y gush. Wendell State Forest roads loose packed gravel, steep, demanding ascents that nearly broke each of us, but didn't

Through the forest alongside beaver ponds

Eventually we were stymied by the run-off from a beaver pond, far down New Boston Rd (which sounds like a real road but is really an old cart path through the woods). With recent rains and snow melt, the waterways are high and the result, for us, was an impasse we could not get around. So we altered our coursee on the fly, went back up to Mount Mineral Road and eventually up the crazy long climb of Wendell Rd, hard-packed clay that, at times, felt like pedaling on a gym floor.

The Virginian, getting it done

A Week to Go

A week from tonight, Jah willing, I'll be hunkered down in the Lyndon Motor Lodge, in Lyndon, VT poring over the Rasputitsa route and getting myself thoroughly jacked for the Big Race.

Pair with friends and family

Actually, in a way, I'm doing that tonight, Friday, April 8, though situated in the comfort of Shad Headquarters, with a basement refrigerator full of Spencer IPAs brewed by Trappist monks two towns over. Except that tonight I'm psyching for the immediate weekend ahead, not race weekend. Tomorrow and Sunday I have to log some major miles.

The tentative good news is that the fickle April weather may cooperate and deliver a mostly rain-free, though not warm, Saturday and Sunday. The training plan is for a long road ride tomorrow (Saturday), possibly attempting an assault on the Mon Vontusett, a round distance ride on the order of 45 miles. Sunday, The Virginian and I will meet in Montague in the morning and hit the dirt roads and forest paths for another 40+ miles.

The obvious question that legions of Team Shad fans around the globe are asking is "Will the boys be ready for the big day?" It's a fair question and I'm happy to report, with certainty, that the short answer is "YES." The long answer is "Fuck YES."

And here's why.

I've said it repeatedly, The Virginian is like a Navy SEAL, he's like John Muir or Meriwether Lewis. He's always prepared, he bears up well under duress, he's indefatigable. He would climb a sequoia in a lightening storm just to be closer to the spectacle. And he's been getting some good rides in lately.

As for myself, Dubstoevsky, man of fragile shoulders and indomitable appetite, I, too, can be counted on to go the distance. On any given day, I can suffer with the best of them and not abandon the quest. I can go honey badger at a moment's noticed. Like a gila monster, I will bite and then chew my venom into the wound of the Rasputitsa. And I too have put in some good hard miles in the last month.

Team Shad is comprised of a duo of iron workers. Together, we sling slag and slop bones, we hack and smelt. We will go to Vermont like Visigoths. Hannibal may have crossed the Alps on elephants but Team Shad will circumnavigate Burke Mountain on aluminum steeds, climbing into the ethereal mist like Lao Tzu meandering The Way. Mindfulness and pillaging. Yin and yang.

Or, to spin it a different way, consider Winston Churchill and his abiding wisdom for the ages. We're all over that philosophy. We will definitely keep going.

Rasputitsa Training Camp, Day 1

Team Shad team cars

With a little less than a month before the Rasputitsa, Team Shad met in Orange, Massachusetts, a town clearly misnamed as there is nothing bright or wholesome about the place; it is, in fact, desolate & run down, a small enclave far from anything meaningful. But the parking was convenient, in a mostly empty lot next to the Honest Weight Brewery, and peeing into the ditch separating the lot from the railroad tracks was convenient.

We are a team of two: Dubstoevsky, Team Leader, and The Virginian, stalwart assassin & congenial cycling mensch whose generosity is boundless and whose killer instinct is unpredictable. He is, as I've long said, the man you want on your team.

Downtown Orange, on the way out

We opted to ride out of Orange because we'd explored the roads to the north of there before, last November on road bikes. On that ride we'd ended up doing a fair amount of hard-packed dirt, more than we'd wanted to at the time. However, for Rasputitsa Training Camp, that's exactly what we wanted, miles of packed dirt roads, and maybe some wood roads and trails of various conditions. We wanted to simulate at least some of the conditions that we're sure to encounter at The Rasp. We weren't disappointed.

Oxbow Rd, Orange
Dirt just 1.5 miles into the ride

Several righteous stretches of clay-sand-packed hill roads swept us along Oxbow Rd and Pine Hill Rd and Town Farm Rd, still bright sun, shadows from the naked hardwood, the day hinting at warmth though not quite getting there. The Virginian and I pushed each other. We talked about strategy for the Rasp and how to approach it. I offered him free rein; if he wanted to launch ahead and get his best time, I wouldn't hold him back. We did agree that we wouldn't attack each other.

But that wouldn't be true on a training day so I kept a wary eye open and reeled him back after a couple friendly launches.

Perfect conditions

The Virginian on the attack

Dubstoevsky restoring order

Eventually, we exited the back country dirt packed roads and plunged into the woods. Conditions deteriorated quickly.

We reminded ourselves that decades-ago we had gone night mountain biking together, on several occasions. "In the winter" The Virginian added.

Today, we were on a woods track that appeared as a dotted line labeled Royalston Rd on the photocopied page from the NH Gazetteer I'd brought along. We hoped the track would connect back up with North Main St near the NH border, but in a way it didn't matter because this was real Rasputitsa terrain. We reassured ourselves that it would have to end up somewhere (as if that weren't a universal truism of every trail anyway).

Entering the forest

Mountain biking skills preferred

Crunching through the icy forest run-off

At one point we came to a frozen-over set of tire ruts on a logging road. We exploded through them like stampeding mastodons, shattering the thick ice into a thousand diamond shards and sending a tsunami of muddy water into the beaver marsh on either side. Then we posed like Zeus and Thor to immortalize the moment.

We leave shattered ruts in our wake

Full disclosure: ATVs had mashed through the ice ruts; we gingerly negotiated our way around the edges. The day was far too cold to risk getting wet. I'd even had second thoughts riding up the middle of the old abandoned wood road, draining as it was with an inch or more of water sluicing its way through icy, pebbled crust; one wrong tire turn and I'd be down. Luckily, that never came to pass.

Unluckily, I found myself quite chilled for much of the first half of the ride. Initial climbing early on caused me to break a sweat; then a fair amount of descending on pavement cooled me down quickly. For the second ride in a row, I'd misjudged my layers. Today, I could have used a 4th layer, or perhaps even just a brown paper shopping bag against my chest - I'd consciously eschewed it today, thinking that the Gore base layer, the fleece long-sleeve middle garment, and the thick neoprene Gore anti-wind top layer would be sufficient. It wasn't. When we finally got back to the team cars, the temperature hovered around 40 degrees, but for much of the ride it was below that, and, as expected, the day had grown overcast, obscuring any warmth from the wan sun.

But the day was a success. 37.2 miles, almost the length of the Rasp (which is a shade above 40). Three hours and fifteen minutes in the saddle, certainly more pavement than the Rasputitsa and perhaps not quite as challenging terrain over all, but for the first day of training, we were pleased. We'd acquitted ourselves well and concluded that Team Shad is on course for a strong race next Month.

New Years Day 2016

Day One, Ride One
The Gates of the New Year

Welcome to Shad Rides, the 2016 Edition, home of Team Shad and the words of team leader, head glutton, and lapsed Russian novelist, Dubstoevsky. Allez!

Team Shad has high ambitions for the coming year, namely the Trifecta, the Big Three gravel grinders: the Rasputitsa, the Tour de Heifer, and the D2R2. Starting in mid-April and paced two months apart, the Big Three events are the exclamation points punctuating the nine month season (April to December).

Team Shad successfully completed the Trifecta in 2014 but only managed to participate in the D2R2 in 2015. The goal is all three again in 2016, and that goal shapes the team's schedule and training approach. Basically, the training approach is to maintain a modest riding schedule in January, February and March, as the weather allows. Last year, of course, the Snowy Winter From Hell set in in late January and shut the team down until late April; we had to withdraw from the Rasputitsa 2015 because we were unable to train in the two months prior (and you do not want to enter that race out of shape).

We can't control the weather, of course, and this is New England where anything can happen. Last year in the Woo, it was the snowiest and coldest winter on record. But some years there's been literally no more than a few inches of snow every month or so, mild winters with temps in the mid 60s on New Years Day. All we can do as cycling shad is keep our bikes ready, our spirits up, and our goals in mind. The rest is up to Jah.

Today, Jah abided.

Setting out past the Greek Orthodox Church, Russell St, Woo City
January 1, 2016

A steely, gray day, low 40s, slight breeze, a holiday, roads mostly clear of traffic. The inch and a half of slushy snow from three days ago is mostly gone from the roadways, though there's already plenty of loose sand strewn about. No lax riding! Must pay strict attention at all times.

Which is fine, actually. Paying attention is one of the great aspects of cycling, the need for constant vigilance, the necessity of staying in the moment. Sure, your mind can wander but your senses must stay focused, you must be constantly aware in 360 degrees, you must know what's behind you, what's ahead of you, what the surrounding area is in either side of the road, you must never take the road surface for granted but instead treat it as though every turn of the wheel presents the chance for catastrophe. And yet even with obsessive compulsive attention, a distance cyclist remains at the mercy of circumstance and must trust that a drunken driver, a texting driver, a fooling-around-at-the-wheel teenager will not interject their death karma into the day's journey.

Today, 23+ miles of road, keen attention paid all the way, and the result is a safe return and the first ride of 2016. A road ride to boot. Whizzing along empty pavement, the New England countryside bare, rocky, hilly, thick with stands of hardwood forest, punctuated with gray, icy-looking reservoirs, black crows cawing from the tree tops and lopping along on the wing, dark silhouettes of prophecy against a somber sky.

The spillway for the Kettle Brook reservoirs
Cherry Valley, MA (a part of Leicester)

All of life is a chance, really. We can take every precaution, educate ourselves, watch our health, be vigilant when traveling, wear seat belts, avoid war zones, but there's no guarantee that we'll wake up tomorrow morning. We just trust we will. And so I trust that I will ride again. I don my helmet in a gesture of Wise Precaution, but I also bow low in humble recognition of Fate's fickle intentions.

The old Cold War maxim regarding arms control was "Trust, but verify." A cycling maxim might be "Take nothing for granted, be fucking careful, and hope for the best."

Holden Reservoir from the northern end
January 1, 2016

New England style

Dubstoevksy sends a big HUZZA and a Happy New Year bellow to the Mighty Virginian, dependable Shadmate and decades-long cycling companion; to Master Scrod in Frankfurt, and his Ventoux Calls compadre Meister M recovering from Fate's angry bitch slap; to I Ward, recovering from shoulder surgery; and to all cyclists the world over.

And last but not least, an OM AH HUM to the memory of the Mighty General, long time Director Sportif of Team Shad, tireless supporter and raconteur extraordinaire whom we lost in 2015. Allez, great friend!

The trusty mount
January 1, 2016

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.